Idle in Wait.

It rained while I stood idle in my darkness,

Receiving pellets in torrents from up high

As I listened to the verbal bullying of the storm.

I stood still, ever calm to face this wretched tempest,

To watch it Keel over foundations, break down relations

And drown souls in a river of individual damnations.

I stood, restraining the urge to duck for cover, denying

Myself the warmth of another, and I watched this rain that

Was not natural.

It rained and I stood idle in my darkness,

Mastering the bitter cold for a sign from my master.

I longed for my release from my binding.

I waited for the command that would free me, 

For the order that would send me back to my post.

I waited, for the voice that would praise my output.

I waited, I stood idle and waited for the sky to clear,

For the chance to perform my duty as the sun

To light the darkness that blinded my master, to

Ignore the darkness of my hollow sustenance.

It rained and I stood idle in my darkness;

I stood in wait with a calming duress, 

Waiting for that time of calming showers and

The passing of the numbing clouds.

I stood idle in wait for my master,

During the time when her soul was in longing.

This rain was not normal.

It was never from the gods of nature.

It was my master weeping for warmth.

Lordd – Canto I

In the moment of mornings when the Immortal Night haggles

The Breaking Dawn for time, a spawn of man; the good seed formed

Of their sweat and lust, the good seed borne in the likeness

Of the holy house is born from entrails and blood. 

In a moment Learned hands gather in frantic chorus, they exclaim 

In piercing screams to “Get ready! Get ready! He is coming!!”

When the gift of the gods is out, when the gift of the revered is freed 

From its fleshy binding they give praise to this new life. They give praise for this

Newcomer in the gathering of two legs. They chime and praise.

They welcome this new form in glee, this gift of life from the givers of life, 

They sing to those most high in hallelujahs. They welcome him

To the specie of supremacy, to the house of Gaia,

And their stream of thought lifts their praise in humming

Before their mercurial nature makes haste. “Hallelujah!” They hum before

They break out in loud hails that infect the anxious family. They mirror 

Their love to their masters; the fathers of their holy houses, the most 

Revered lords and saviours. 

They welcome the child with praise for their Lords in a booming chorus.

And every day they sway to it, they sway every day of that week until the seventh day, until when he is given his name. 

Again, learned hands gather in a frantic chaos to grant this holy gift a clan. 

They offer his birth rite, ask his eager parents, so proud and glowing, they ask them; 

“What shall We name him?” They ask them, so proud and glowing, 

They ask them; 

“Who does he look like, Our gifted ones, who?” they call to their

Fruitful children. They tell them;  “name him after your fathers.”

They beam and proclaim in glee. They decide;

“This is your name Child.” This is what the waiting ears want.

They lift him to the sky. They lift him to the gods,

Who are pleased with the child of their faithful. 

And as dawn releases it’s light unto darkness and the stubborn night sends champions

To hamper his rival; loud cackling that precede the flooding 

Of the sky and earth, claps and the numbing thumps of war that call the tempest. 

In all the chaos the child gets a name; 

A name too grand yet fitting the unforeseen.

A name too proud to revere Authority. 

A name that will regard the Chorus of the hands,

That will regard the chiming of the sect – of giving glory to the Lord,

As continuous depravity of power.

The name of the child is Lordd.

The child that lusts for Power.

The child that will challenge His God.

10 lines of life and symmetry

Life rolls out in a circular motion

And the ball plodding the path knows; 

No volition alien to its making calms it. 

No conscience begs its progress, unless; it stops where destiny need it. 

In a wonderful twist of symmetry it comes to a halt,

Where we meet at a stream of dreams.

It links our consciousness to cravings,

an endless cycle of life and being,

Made easier when we finally meet; and live like there’s nothing

That stops us from breathing and living, while loving this motion of being:

Life in it’s perfect motion; its own direction of meaning.

Your Answer to My Question

What is it you desire? What would you desire?

The bliss of the heart or the thrill of the mind?

The drug called lust or a cure for the heart? 

Would you want the twist and turns 

On soft sheets or hard beliefs? To feel the

Full on emotions or be fuelled to mind blown emotion?

Do you need sweet whispers in your ear 

That lead your heart in beats of joy? Or

One that moves you to the rhythm that joins 

Your heart and fast breaths? Do you need one or both;

One for thrill, the other for a life? Or maybe, to feel

Complete in heart and soul? To feel complete

In heart and body? 

Make it known what you desire. What would you need? 

To be led on rides past experience warned you off?

Love physical and emotional laid down on your path,

Planned out on rails so grand they climax at once? 

To be broken into a chain of plain desire, leading you on 

Till there is nothing else?

What would you need? What do you want?

Obluda

The monster stirs, yawns; he wakes finally. He’s hungry.

He peers out and chooses someone right and plump and 

Fleshy and tasty yet greying. He’s hungry and this someone

Is near. He’s so hungry he doesn’t notice who. He’s 

So hungry he misses the resemblance and He chomps down; 

Gobbles and gobbles whole portions, not savouring the meat,

Just sating his hunger. It’s done now. He belches then withdraws

Into himself, still not realizing who he’s eaten; he saw but didn’t

See. Or he saw but didn’t care. The monster ate his own lover. 

Like he ate his dear father. He chomped and gobbled them whole,

Chomped and Gobbled his own. But maybe he did not care. His hunger

Would not make things clear. This is how it’s always been: from the one 

with the gap teeth first then the three with the marks then after. 

His hunger has taken so many now, since the one who knew he’d eat her. 

She knew in her heart she was fodder. Knew he would not see in his hunger. 

But he tried and tried to hold back his hunger. He managed so long 

Not to surrender. Held out so long it hurt him: as he fed on his insides it hurt him. 

He held it so long he forgot the hunger would always grow bigger.

The monster held it long……then one day she did it. She

Called him out on his hunger. Poked it and then went away.

Said he could eat his fill, then left him to find his fill. 

Now he can hold it no longer. He chomps and chomps till they echo.

He gobbles and savours every bit. -Chomp Chomp. Gobble 

Gobble. Burp- 

When he stops his world grows smaller; when he stops

There’s no one there.

The Library

This silence. This sombre silence defines this large 

Room. The shelves hide the emptiness. The books 

Flood in the loneliness. The book covers; they hide 

The loud words behind the large stacks that deafen 

This room’s sentiments. Filed, recorded, piled in long

Rows of material firmness, to display each stack as 

Editions of experience that could help rule the world;

If only they were opened. If only they were read and 

Understood the room would be a marketplace. 

The lighting would be better, the shelves would feel 

Warmer and the words would scream louder and clearer.

This room. It has the sombre ambience of a cemetery;

The shelves lined like tombstones reading last rights 

And elegies. The long piles give off the imaginary white

Glow of clean skeletons and the words in there are the

Muck and puss of the earth. If only the soul of the room 

Were not drawn to seek out patronage. If only this soul

Gave life to this room. All it wants is space on a shelf.

LEBRECHT||THE LIBRARY

The Rest House

On a lonely hill, where no one makes home, is a 

Rest house. On that hill, where crickets take ease 

And lay their tune, where brothers aim never to go, yet 

Their sisters try to rest their heads, is that rest house.

With foundations foreign and strong yet weak to the 

Muddy terrain, sturdy and yet, so frail to the seasons there;

This rest house was made to ease the weary and travelling in

pain, yet

Welcomes those who use it for a wicked aim, and then leave.

The caretaker has no complaints; it gets so lonesome on that hill;

When the rest house is his mind.
                      ||THE REST HOUSE||

                 ||LEBRECHT||-MAR/2017||