I am - was - grief

This is the final hymn from the Hymnary of the Church of Crows.

It is grief: living with grief, becoming grief everlasting. Grief is all that we leave on this mortal coil. Grief is what we become. This is the belief. This is the belief of the congregation of the Church of Crows.

This is.... I am - was - grief

The feeling is now artificial.

Needs concocted and mixed.

No longer muscle memory.

A veteran of what was ever seen.

“That must have been awful”

It truly must have been.

You shall be the same.

Great fish bowl tears for ------,

turn aquariums for blue fish.

Budding hanging clouds:

listless and nowhere near inclined.

“I wander drenched, I’m lost”

You’ll find a path, in time.

On ash crackled lines

disconsolate creatures call:

wail out over raw grey lands.

Concerto of night sea inconsolate.

“Do these creatures fly?”

In murmurations inchoate.

These spirits move around.

Moulding, taking misshapes.

Them: I venture through

what’s drawn as easy from a quill.

“If they lose shape entirely?”

They cannot; never will.

Priest, Mortis-infinite,

perched among the gods.

Appreciates performances,

proffers down thorny roses.

Cheers and jeers our little show.

“Is that the sound above?”

Yes. Cawing of the crow.

Scythe reaper of our harvest.

Warm in the August dry wheat sun.

Laid and aired as stickling sheaf,

Creatures for other’s grief.

We’ll pour our ink to the inkwell.

Swoop in dusk-lit-batic feats.

In life’s rafters we’ll take a bearing beam.

“Has this always been our purpose?”

It has truly always been.

Death Knell

After the beauty comes Greville and the Tombstones. This started out a little bleak, but lightened up as it went on.

Death Knell

There is no hope.

But it’s the hope which kills.

So that’s alright then.

The shock is always unforgiving.

No matter that what is known is certain.

It was all for all this nothingness.

It was all for all this nothingness.

Never so alive than near death,

so that's OK then.

I suppose,
I guess.
Because that's what they say.
Because that's what they say.

Real death cuts off the fuel pipe:

tragic humiliation;

creation of mess.

Leaves everyone lonely, feeling alone.

Leaves everyone lonely, feeling alone.

The sunrise is aflame,

winter will be soon.

And cold will be less.

Tried to convey my eyes to other human beings:

it’s a chaotic emptiness.

A chaotic emptiness through me.

A chaotic emptiness through me.

Why does my body keep on operating when my life keeps on killing me?

I won't see all history

and what might do for me

is a failing single infinitesimal artery.

Pre-programmed to go involuntary.

Pre-programmed to go involuntary.

Intravenous me, hydrate me.

Strip the enamel from my teeth.

Wheels, cords and sticks is all I am.

Bless me as I run.

Moon up-lights rain from underneath.

Rain like silver razor blades.

Razor blades slice like this rain.

I read and I read and bleed until lines

sink deep through the pages.

I write and I write

and I write and writhe until

lines are thick bars of cages.

We are standing on the death knell.

We are standing on the death knell.

The flowers I picked for your hand hold the scent of other days.

I wish there were other flowers for other days

There will be other days.

There will be other days.

There will be other days.

There will be other days.

A meditation on wonder whilst knowing the end. Or: Johann Bartholomeus Adam Beringer is dead!

I've tried to write something beautiful. It just about caused me go mad with the headaches. I'm not cut out to write beautifully.

This is...
A meditation on wonder whilst knowing the end.
Or: Johann Bartholomeus Adam Beringer is dead!

Narrowest morning:

Paint blot moon in the cyan.

Sun blazed rising on a razor.

Swept pastel ribbons of cloud

gently compelled to flutter.

Storm line settles some distance away.

The cemetery always

in the grip of some chill.

It might be how it’s exposed:

On the hillside; trees far off.

Nylon flowers serve better here.

Concern glowers from oblong dull stones.

Bones lay evenly for all.

Lay flat a hand: see it.

Restful peace: a harmony.

Never lift another book.

Not another desirous grasp.

Let me pass without a touched wonder!

Lace of theories

do gather in the cemetery.

Colour of snakes’ skin.

Sharpness of citrus.

With chisel cuts to the day.

The truth: “No happiness before death”

There: a moment where,

wishing failure on despair,

dreamt stood on dust plane.

No soul shone round fair.

Compassion was my Hell

Birds left in massed shrieking squalls.

Bridge arched in wood.

Creeper branches arborescent.

Red berries dropping

like notes from piano keys.

Onto deadening wires.

Their music ruining everything.

Blood pouring out.

On paper, blood-slipping,

words shifting as they soak.

Dropping like red berries.

Gloominess of thought.

Not particularly caring for this beauty.

Romantic Masochist (Valentine mix)

Photography by @tellthee

Love Truth Love.

Poet's desk

I like this. It's how I want to be sometimes, writing for Greville and the Tombstones.

Many thanks to Jeanie Laub for finding and sharing this with me.

The Glorious Verse sleeve art

@tellthee created this appropriate sleeve art should a CD of The Glorious Verse be released. Which it wont because #thereisnoCD #thereisnoband

All the same, this is wonderful.

The glorious verse

This started out as a series of unconnected lines I wrote.
This is as close to a philosophical tract as I may muster.
I imbued it with malice.

The Glorious Verse...  

If I can’t get a muse,

An archenemy will do for me just as well.

I walk beside the river,

Through the membrane, fingers reach for me.

I’m a collection of atoms.

Put together to witness astrophysics and cruelty.

There's a crack in my ribcage

To put a cassette in, to playback my same position.

Like a pinned moth on a board

I’m uncomfortable and in need of a physician.

[Break]  

In this lecture theatre

We are both the studious and the studied.

A flash of the Pale Cutter's needle,

Neat stitching transforms us into what we are. 

A last exhale

slipping its mooring rope, roadkill, a cadaver.

[Break]  

If I require a reason,

I am surrounded by a past so have to not seek any further. 

I know, I know, I know, but you
and your woe can go right on ahead and fuck one another.

I try to claw at time.

Tremble as she shapes her legs along her parallel universe.

[the glorious verse]

I'm well aware.
I'm only too well aware of this.
After love there is loss and God only knows what we miss out on.

I’ve found no redeeming qualities in moral redemption:

They place a jar, ring a salt circle, make a flame small.

I've discovered no hopes in falsehoods masking desperation:

A world of physical tenderness
is the most mournful gift to the lonesome of all.

And I know about it,
I know only too well all about it.
Won't expect your mercy in your all enduring judgment.

And I know all about it.
How people shift into better; into worse.

When she steals my gaze in amber, I hear the glorious verse.

Christmas Tombs card

Wishing all adorers of Greville and the Tombstones a very gentle festive time.

May ghosts come to settle by candlelight.

May bones be placed in your stocking.

May there be a new year for you.

Card design by @tellthee

Ghosts are real

This is... Ghosts are real

Dead relationships are dead.
Ghosts are real.
Haunting the old haunts.
Some people contact them.
I don't believe in them.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead. 
They float silently by my eye.
They never age, but rot.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead.
I hear the shrieks.
I hear the sound trees make.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead. 
I think I must be dreaming.
I hear them in my bed.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead.

There's another ten verses I could tell, but everything I've said covers it just as well.

A Perishing Lament

Greville and the Tombstones are not very good at Halloween. But this little one seems appropriate for reading on a Halloween night. Listen and you might hear it through the wind, through the window, through the wall, through to morning.

This is:
A Perishing Lament

It’s not what fleshes our costumes.

It’s not the glow of a lantern,

flickering a face through a windowpane.

It’s a peculiarity which consumes.

A gothic, sloshing, formed within.

It’s an invisible foreboding without name.

It’s joining in a parlour game,

All silk dresses, paraffin lights and warm. 

And sensing not all is tomfoolery intent,

Disguised by cinder toffee scent.  

And the spirit moves on from you. 

And the spirit moves on

Because of what you have done.  

Watching players all sat in the round.

The Medium’s fingers of reed,

Flickering in refined ethereal breeze.

Listening out for your mortal sound.

The channelling is meant to mislead.

The panting in breasts as breaths freeze.

We’re joining your parlour game.

All creaks, knocks and earie manifest.

And moaning out eternal undying torment,

It’s a perishing lament.

And the spirit does rest with you.

And the spirit does rest

Because of what you have done.