i

God, in his booming station, threads the devil;
the babbles of the mind lay waste to eagled heirs.
Setting no law to the war of hero's revel,
serried in the graves of knowing, crime impairs.
Rushed in the seed of the word outside all loving,
love, in her trendless burning, pinions hate;
the babbles of the mind lay waste to hero's peril.
Setting no law to war, the way is rape.
Green in the fuse of herod's serial murder,
dark as the sun, the moon proclaims her spiel.
Slashed in the thigh-wide crater of red purdah,
serried in the graves of choosing, heaven's wheel,
rent in the vinegar shadow of breath's bruising,
spired by the seas of the all-too-grateful dead,
man in macadam spoils the roads with rusing,
the rose in the rogue of fearing, craned at head.
God, in his booming station, treads the ocean;
the babbles of the mind lay waste to eagled spheres.
Setting no law to the wards inside emotion,
serried in the graves of growing, crime endears.
Flashed in the crash of the arbour outside hearing,
christ, in his oaken ship, inflames the veil;
the biblers in the brain shear down to zero.
Man in macadam, rucked, rips out the grail.

ii

Love, no peaceful mourner,
shended in the ark of truth,
shapes the oat inside the mortar.
Man to man is light uncouth.
Love, no peaceful maker,
shended in the ark of blood,
shapes the oat inside the water.
Man to man is bust in bud.
Love, no peaceful splendour,
shended in the ark of rain,
shapes the oat inside the render.
Man to man is bust in brain.
Love, no peaceful suitor,
shended in the arkless east,
shapes the oat inside the lover.
Man to man is hero's beast.

iii

God, in his booming station, forges nowhere;
babbling in the brine,
each wheated hill of wisdom comes to none;
the turning mill of christ,
each wheated will of fusion on the run,
endless as love's heist,
wharves away the seas to prove the sun.
God, in his booming station, forges nero;
bibling in the breath,
each wheated word of wisdom purges round;
the turning baptised dream,
each wheated wind of fission run aground,
endless as a scream,
wharves away the seas to prove its sound.
The wicked wish of kisses in the mansion,
bridling at the stone,
prove time as cruel and coiled as hero's fold;
the storming marrow's fist,
each wasping curve of scientific ransome,
bridling at the bone,
prove seas in sensate reeling, curled as gold.

iv

No man is endless;
endless as the rings of fire.
No man is endless;
endless as the crowns of wire.
No man is endless;
endless as the springs of burning.
No man is endless.
Man to man is razed in yearning.

v

The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the seas.
The hand that rends the stable
shapes the nave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shends away the bibled trees.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the trees.
The hand that rends the stable
blackens heaven's fable.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shends away the bibled siege.
God, in his booming station,
shapes away the nation.
God, in his booming station,
shaves away the number.
God, in his booming station,
shapes away the nation.
God, in his booming station,
staves away the thunder.

vi

The lordless god of summer breaks the shoot;
the bibling rooks of winter steal away.
No man upon the town
may stave away the sound
of the lordless god of autumn's searing way.
The lordless god of hearing breaks the shoot;
the bibling rooks of spearing storm the grave.
No man upon the town
may stave away the sound
of the lordless god of fearing's slaughtered nave.
The winnowed staves of seeing music under
each symphony of rape-becoming humour.
No man upon the town
may stave away the ground
of the lord above the chapel's appled rumour.
The lordless god of summer breaks the shoot;
the bibling rooks of winter steal away.
No man inside a mound
may stave away the drowned,
nor any oceaned dreamer save the day.

vii

The code that from the mortar shapes a dime
binds death to crime;
that serries with the graves of endless nothing,
binds to loving;
and ocean men who spire against the soul,
take endless role,
as real and red within as herod's coming.
The wax that from the halo sears to truth
must stream uncouth;
that serries with the graves of Mnethna's saunter,
binds to slaughter;
and endless ocean men who choose to cry
destroy the sky,
as real and red within as hero's daughter.
The rose that on the thral cleaves theft to call,
binds death to all;
that jacks the siren soul aside from water,
shears manslaughter;
and ocean men who know no female light,
rave from the night,
their winter follies, cold as hero's shoulder.
The cock that maims the tides with clocking ruin,
binds to sueing;
that whacks away the pulse of veinward number,
sears to thunder;
and all the waves of ocean-sealing theft
must sear the breath,
as real and red within as hero's slumber.

viii

God, in his booming station, threads the devil;
the babbling wheys of mary know no source.
No rended stave of dreams is served to Babel,
as man in macadam speaks with endless force.
Five fingers come to those who know no prison;
five fingers, red at soul and strangling under.
God, in his booming station, threads the devil;
the babbling wheys of mary, green as thunder.
God, in his booming station, summons nowhere;
the biblers in the tower have sons to kill.
No truth is known to men who travel sun-where.
As much as man is tarry, so too must petra thrill;
and children in the course of jonah's sinking,
wealed in loving, flash the heart with moans.
God, in his booming station, threads all thinking;
the biblers in the tower, as rent as bones.

ix

The lord, in his inchoate revel, builds the temple;
forged from molten manacles, the icy seas
lay mad waste to the devil:
with the rapes of this glib world dunged in a bubble,
half god and half mad angel
here conceive.
Received by the wombs of the world, the Word co-mettles:
lighted by the spindles of the old
that shirk within a seminary's troubles,
thread to thread, the casuistry unravels;
and raven as the man who treads the pedal,
creation here extols.
This is the curtain on the coffin's signals:
the satyred nature of this phantomed world
forces through the fusions in an anvil:
down rinking leaves, the loots of vision bevel;
and, as mortal as a martyr's medal,
flashes like glad gold.
God's tendril treads the trees and greets the tunnels;
no lud of war is 'His' to see appeased;
down founted footfalls flow the caning muscles
of rectored waste: the Lord works like a runnel:
and, in frames of state, the falcon pummels
and hatchets like a seed.
Inchoate heaven reigning, here's God's tendril
voyages the cockward streams of darksome day:
finding the waters rhinal and purportal,
on the destructive level, time is myrtled
and, raining on a gavel, chains to metal
each raider of the grave.

x

The love of light betrays the summer's tinkers;
deep in the grave,
each siren whirls away the sun;
the caul of the cruise inside the temple's thinkers,
serried down to zero,
weals aside the golden one.
The hearse of the moon betrays the summer's brothers;
deep in the grave,
each seal of searing rages on;
the maul of the cruise in the temple's underfakirs,
serried down to zero,
weals aside the shaman's drum.
No christ nor creator betrays the winter's number;
deep in the grave,
the saul of saving sears to nil;
the thral of the noose around the decks of thunder,
serried down to zero,
weals away the sinner's thrill.
This lordless life is dark as dreamward drifting;
deep in the grave,
as endless as the sires of death,
as much as man and child must ravage heaven's shifting,
serried down to zero,
the word of god is herod's theft.
Hero's fuse can only come to naveward burning;
deep in the grave,
the oils of lightning summon time;
the moll at the throat must suck the marrow's oozing;
serried down to zero,
the word of god is crime.

xi

Time climbs its rented miracle;
ten times the hedons, time is spined and slaved;
cornered by the mounted fields that strangle,
clockhands seek and find the graved:
the flailing seaman swims inside its stubble;
time itself lies mounted on the rocks;
a feral choir of weathers sprees and cudgels;
time and tide detain and storm the locks.
Death, the incidental, splits god's tendril;
the cadaver on its handle squints on high;
the skyroad to the temple splits the mental;
and now the arteries of rumour rise:
turning a rectal face against the menial,
here the eagled armies pace and pare;
death itself lies spurnt and occidental;
spurned and spurning by, time's riders flare.
But christ is hared and haloed! in the sides
of seasoned seas and samsoned slicks of light,
sweetly drive the diver's cells of fusing
that bring the living being from out the night;
and, clapped in water like a ruckling,
strung from harpsichords and haling lochs,
light astrides the breeders of the tearing
and sucks away the bosoms of the rocks.

xii

Loss, leagued under, strips the seven seas.
Life, leagued over, strips the light of breath.
Loss, leagued under, strips the seven seas.
Life, leagued over, rips apart the holy death.
Loss, leagued under, strips away the heroes
of the cortal christ in the transept's roar.
Life, leagued over, strips away its haloes,
shendless as the tides in the tithes of war.
Loss, leagued, delves the sun for nero.
Light, leagued, delves the moon for kith.
Christ, leagued, delves the womb for zero.
Life, leagued, delves the tomb for pith.

xiii

The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave,
that ties lynched talons
to the fathering trees,
does down all breath, as the templers rave.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the seas.
Though the trees be planed and spumed at birth,
though the angels as they groove
compose a parried breeze,
high with the hand that runnels through the earth,
the bastard heraldic murders as she weaves;
and where the tendant manna rises from its flirt
and sharpens the harp;
where haloed matter seethes,
cruel come the crones of beast and tare and wort;
cruel come the farriers of the cindered seed.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave,
that ties lynched talons
to the fathering trees,
does down all breath as the templers rave.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the seas.

xiv

Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.
In the mangled daisy, inside the peal of bells,
up where martyrs bury the mortars of a spell;
in the mangled daisy, inside the peal of bells,
beside the routed lady, the proctorates swell.
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.
God is neither locum nor primal convertor.
Christ is neither primate nor ignoble deed.
Gabriel is neither paragon nor deserter.
Time and tide alike dwell darkly in the seed.
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.

xv

The halo's course is razed: the mystic tantrum
that drives the glowering rocks
is here perfused:
the rot that sires the clock, the heroed ransome,
is here destroyed, the fickle caste removed.
The halo's course lies buried in a mountain:
who comes to die
lies split by life to chime:
the anger drummed and drunk on cryptic stanchions
here rocks the roasting angels as they climb.
The lips of speech do no retell their summons:
love's gibbet, slain,
hangs wryly from the trees:
the force that makes the temples shend their sermons
lies dumbed and drained of all its spended seed.
The time that trips immortal and purportal
here sifts the docks of crime
into an eyes that pleas:
the rise of crime into a world aortal
here lies staved
and written on the trees.

xvi

God comes! In undead waters, angels wingle;
come unto seastruck towers, the furies fold;
the flight of spatial mortar girds its simples;
the tendrils of the godhead spear and mould.
Within the sun god, sphered, the pointed ferrule,
bright and brassy, blasts apart the grave;
star set for multicolour, jacob's angle
snips the sex of jonah and is saved.
Smoke in shippen hills and oaken valleys,
where the eagle's eyrie steers and rocks,
strides the holy tendril and its galleys;
where the gods are brazen, nature knocks.
One by one, the slash of vision chaffers;
in the sin green fables of the mind,
manstrung ancthers reach for holy masters;
in the stoving bone, the templers grind.
Love, like words on water, must fade gladly,
yet the heavens write against the tides.
Love and death assail on seas of parity;
death and love shall beat the holy ides.

xvii

The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
Ten skulled fingers
stub the humours down.
Death is the tomb of money and its bringers.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the town.
In the sallow spheres of bird and angel;
where the parson crows
and the holy boast conceives,
death is the tomb of money as it glows.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the seas.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The hand that suffers christ
is the pall bay in the coves.
Death is the tomb that snaps alive the knife.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the rose.
The hand, the hand that does down death
parries and marries
to the infant in the deed;
death is the rumour that murders as it carries.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes all need.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the angled seas.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The sun that is young lies buried in the weeds.

xviii

God, in his booming station, knows no ending,
neither shall the templers spiel for none.
God, in his booming station, knows no rending,
neither do the curves of christ ennumb.
God, as friendless as the spheres of purdah,
wharve away the seas to prove their theft.
God, in his booming station, suckles murder,
endless as the foils of hero's weft.
God, as friendless as the tears of motion,
wharve away the seas to suffer light.
God, in his booming station, nations under,
breaks the moon to prove the endless night.
Either side of space is canan's wording;
hence the heart has hills no child may climb.
God, as friendless as the spheres in moving,
wharve away the seas to suffer time.
God is neither angel nor primal convertor,
neither is the womb as real as it becomes.
Frozen in the seal of the menstrual daughter,
God, in his booming station, suffers none.
Either side of space is Canan's worship;
hence the heart has rills no child may swim.
God, as endless as the tides of wordship,
frozen in the moon, is veiled as mother sin.

...

copyright jdb 2002.              nb:   this litany is deliberately sacreligious.