A Call in Unquiet

September 18, 2019

Jesus incumbent, you gently saw

And so much more

So long ago  

Into this fragment imagery; this

Malady, this world  

Before were born The Fatal Sisters, or The Furies’ scorns,

The bloods of heroes sieved; their livid heads had shorn


Indeed in deeper time, long gone, before the Celestial nine

Appointed Spheres sublime rotated, as the Cosmos turned  

Before The Law obeyed, and mortal tenancy

Became earmarked as owned

To mortal minds; so far as can be known;

The clashing of antitheses disturbing life’s quiesence  

Beleive it we were brute beasts

Rough jaws of sawlike teeth

For symetry of eating where the kill was  

No more for commentaries on sweet deliverance

Not yet for murder, war, despite, manouvres calculating

Exacerbations nonetheless albeit extenuating  

Potted inside a milling hive a million bees

All driving diverse ways

Big cities to the skies directing, arching,

  All’s struggling scullion meditating fractious thought

Postillion riding combatants soliloquise frustrations

Compunction-crouched, compounding a proliferation  

Asperity enables everybody free

Wrought-up, caught up in, wrangling insurrections;

Succeeding aeons; successive current errors

  O, Lord you saw, and see, so much, and more

Than is before me

I could not write as such had you not been divine

And seen to touch, assure, me

Inside the rebel bind  

A man claught in a mantrap clanging;

Hanging agonies.

Inflicted compact his own hand set gladly

Himself to grieve.

Extremity of enmity so otherwise obtains

This sphere’s disease  

Lord, why no sword, no stroke, only a meanest Passion?

That cut through cords up-binding; thrust

That must discover

The captious carnal brother, grant him innocent parole?  

(The abysmal pitching human-project hazard-marker

In a squall of disarray

Full comprehended true and well a foolish throw

Of pitch and loss)

  The cup you bore, inside unclean, and draining down

Each drop;

Slops, set for us, by us, before you, perfect,

Passed in, allotted, through your anxious crop

  By us, but us unknowingly, fomenting undoing,

By God’s will pouring smutched-by-mortal blottings,

Spots down your guts

And more of mortal care than mortal men ourselves

Allow ourselves to know  

And tasted for our curse, along the ages passing

As curative your blessing; its truculence a nurse,

And last a final hearse to dree our testing:

That ground on which we founder, as we’re gathered in, to fall

Into the fearful hands of the living, gracious, God