Martyrdom and the Town Crier

With our backs pressed against skyscrapers wondering why its shadow overtakes us,

We are taken for granted by an avid misinterpretation
And fucked by a lover with no name.

Beads of sweat drip down foreheads furrowed and uncovered.

Cloud colored concrete embraces broken yellow lines and stumbles drunk to hotel rooms unlocked.

Do Not Disturb

Familiar loopholes from unsung hymns tied together like makeshift flesh nooses,

Wrapped around and bruising the necks of vodka bottles endless.

Florida summer two thousand and nine dead whims on doorsteps

Barely breathing birth of a burden unspoken of and buried sentimental.

The growth of such things is benign and seems harmless to the untrained eye.

We left one sided arguments uncontested and wrong.

Dottels still burning, our last sanctified desire, wretched and sordid.

Minds of once laudable nature left mad and deprived by an imitation of modern art.

Unholy abomination!
Unholy demerit!

Un-holiest of un-holies!

The endless deadly sins of a generation’s good intentions misplaced

Have allowed me to mishandle your vows and drool ecstasy.

I trembled through a winter night naked,
and cried jazz songs so that I could carry on your inconsistencies.
But I quickly lost my way, lost faith, and wrote a sermon in your name.
The words still echo gently against my ear drum and play a rhythm not unlike your heartbeat.
In your name I prey…

On those who cannot see the blaze.

They say there is no love like a mother’s love and it is true!
You gave birth to the flame and put faith back into a feeling.

Oh, Joan of Arc!

Oh, sister of a burning cross!

Scatter my ashes over the sea and let it bathe in my memory.

Your heavenly voice precedes you.
I can hear you in the yard!

I can hear you in my cell!

I can hear you in your drunken streets singing:

Glory Hallelujah!

Will thy angels sing your song
Or have they been hung by their own halos as well?

Reviews

[Devons]

The intelligent turn of phrase and imagery of this piece dominates the proceedings and leaves one with a feeling more than a true clear understanding of its message. But this perhaps is to the enhancement of its power. Like a dream of ugliness and beauty mixed (as is the case with dreams) it presents an overall portrait to be admired and digested in its reading. This portrait is perhaps an epic representation of the comparison between ancient history, myth and the modern reality; between meaningful sacrifice and crusade - was Joan Of Arc's martyrdom worthwhile when one looks around at the world we live in today..? Do we now live in a world made too modern and advanced through achievement and progress that mankind can no longer truly produce such saviours and heroes...? Where is the romantic ideal to be found in such a comparative utopia..? Perhaps modern Man is somehow drugged into apathy and diluted by the modern system; so much so that the furthest we get is the doorstep in terms of making a difference or really caring... All this is inferred within these enigmatically potent, abstractly caustic lines.
This is a very strong and brainstorming allegiance of belligerent words that build through the mind in surreptitious layers, effectively leaving one with a very real sense of understanding and yet still unable to really put a definitive finger on what exactly the point is... But it does still leave one with the feeling that one is all the wiser and experienced and altogether aware of the relevance of such multi-faceted meanings to modern life.

PS. the only thing I would dare to alter is the word-ordering of the final line. My own feeling was that it should have read (in-keeping with the style of the rest of the lines): "Or have they too been hung by their own halos?"

[Gomer LePoet]

Great piece of writing. I'm not to sure what the theme was and where it was heading, but the words made it so it did not matter. Great flow of thoughts made this very interesting whether I grasped the concept or not.