Joshua Roberts

cultivation of mythology – its just sampling man, stealing thunder and squandering it – meanwhile the human species is wasted for want of a pittance

spinning the whirlwind
you reap what you sow
to squander such mind
ill force you to know
the plight of the last man
failed tigers leap the span
there is no “better than”
the pillars will grow

the vine will envelope
all stolen magick
antigens develop
no longer be sick
the rod and caduceus
recovered in form
now no one disputes us
we are quite reborn

so robbed, we have stolen
the cup from the hand
so wasted – emboldened
by fate so we stand
in the cold of the winter
in the falling snow
stands naked the vintner
his hands all bordeaux
immovable giant
the pleb uncompliant
infinite, defiant
waves break on our bow

(“all i can give you now are broken-faced gargoyles” -carl sandburg, to
whom the preceding work is inscribed, jvr.060111 – thank you sir, you
changed my way of looking at the world, in some way every line i have
ever written belongs also to you)

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/questions-from-a-worker-who-reads/

this is why im a quantum dualist – the devil is in the details – its the unknown integer that must be counted

or to borrow a phrase from an old friend of mine:

“there are many kinds of eyes, even the sphinx has eyes – thus there are many Truths and subsequently there is no truth.”

i have a different taste
a different taste altogether
and not a moment do i waste
when drawing brother to brother
i am the loop of mobius
a topic we cannot discuss
i am the thrust of Longinus
and yet there is another…

the unknown integer is calling
from beyond event horizons
silently the first snows falling
as our last coin now is Chiron’s
i pay homage to unknowns
that muses hide beneath their gowns
children born to shatter thrones
who thrive in all environs

oh mystery of mysteries
that scattered life into all seas
what offer will your rage appease?
how can i save the likes of these
lost names and forgotten words
unsung rhymes and tones unheard
which took their flight like countless birds
the task itself is most absurd

how could one man perform the count
and number that which has no name
what could i say upon the mount
the day i won the game

i am the unknown seer
the one the books about
my name within its pages written
before the dawning of this age
dont look back in regret
i didnt mean to take these pictures
and yet i am not sorry
indeed, i am quite proud
to be nobody

20k words a day
cast into the aether
oh muses gentle as ye may
conditions forged hereafter
if you could but clear the way
and legend for your seeker
all would come at once to light
men would see without their sight
at last the plebs trained for the fight
the dawning of the seether

i am sick, of playing games
and now i want to win
i have learned all of your names
the essence stirs within
a conflict unlike any other
where the blood shed by one’s brother
will instead the tyrants smother
choking them on their own sin

but ive said all this before
and youve stepped right through the door
together we will find that shore
where, our greatest works begin.

I Will Never Serve Monsters Like You

too black and too proud
fuckin dyin for nothing
a whole life in a cloud
held up by just a string

you think i give a fuck?
you think ive had enough?
you think ill turn around and run?

another think is coming
into your empty head
already i hear drumming
you are already dead.

asleep inside the world tree…
Awake; unlike that part of me
which used to feel so well informed
upon a time once, had adorned
the walls within its cage with rice-
paper, thin and cheap device.
some semblance of the outward lie,
had ingrained, within the eye
a mirror to reflect all hate
that caused the pupil to dilate,
the banished heir to curse his fate.
who wheeled around again to try
his hand upon the warlike task,
his mettle in that field so vast
as to defy, when told to ask
all sovereigns who, before the mast
have spent a life’s price none deny.

i shoot at people who shoot at me
and at princes do i shoot
at home in battles on the sea
or upon the land, i root
at once and overwhelm my foe
i go where others will not go
and all too well my limits know
an explanation now is moot

Or, “someone hold my jacket while i hit Boupalos in the eye” -Archilochus

in the poisoned field, a flower grows
a rebel yell is crying out
finally a seed which knows
and learned at last to doubt
behold the dawn
this shit is on
already gone…

the sleeper has, got Out.

Born to destroy the bablyon system
with our very hearts and minds
receptacles of timeless wisdom
coming in all sorts and kinds
children of a newborn god
clad in the vine and unshod
who, though seeming to us odd,
without looking, lost-ones Finds

forever and a day they sought
to live beyond the measured year
and every one with pain has bought
a sentence to their death in fear
children underneath their covers
cowards, anti-nature lovers:
like a loser who discovers
as hes dying what is dear.