A Comment

Everyone’s waging a war of the moment
Modern crusades without thought component
Movements led by priests and their zealots
All for the cause and in praise of the harlot

Destroy hate with hate without understanding
Burn it all down we need a rebranding
Sacrifice all to get rid of the one
It’s always the pacifist holding the gun

But we in our mercy and tolerant ways
Have banners to carry and standards to raise
Convert or die, repent and be saved
You’re part of the problem if you’re not with the grain

History’s death comes under the heel
As does the soul if you differently feel
Balance of power swings with the mob
Revolution means heads come off

And on the winds of sweeping change
Ashes and dust are all that remain
Of the fires and pyres that raged untamed
We’ll never learn not to do it again

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Because History Is Cooler Than Fantasy:

Valkyrie T-Shirt by The Stormworks

Valkyrie T-Shirt by The Stormworks

I’ve made this “Valkyrie” (or Norse female warrior) t-shirt design available on Teespring.

(The mock up above is different in scale than the actual shirt, due to print limitations, but I like the Teespring link better.)

The text on the back is a bit of verse from Darraðarljoð, or the Weaving Song of the Valkyries, and reads:

“Now Warwinner walketh
To weave in her turn,
Now Swordswinger steppeth,
Now Swiftstroke, now Storm;
When they speed the shuttle
How spearheads shall flash!
Shields crash, and helmgnawer
On harness bite hard!”

It is available at the following link:

Thanks for looking!

This place I never meant to find,

this time I never meant to be in,

holds me against my will

and I linger longer than a moment

in years gone past and lost;

it’s all I can do to not reach out,

to stretch out from the lonely dark

with fingers broken and bruised

from clawing at this prison of hope,

to see if you, if any part of you that

isn’t only memory now might be there–

but I know, to do so would be my folly,

and finding again the deafening roar

of an anger I’m not sure I deserve

I’d only retreat, defeated again by

the reality that is me,

the reality you created for me.

There was a time, a moment

when light and color–when you–washed away

all the greying shadow I cast in the world,

and melody takes me there far too often,

more than I’d like to admit,

but now…. now there is only me

and memory, thunderous and vibrant,

and painful, not for what it is,

but for what it no longer isn’t;

and this echoing silence fueled now

by rage and hate and the blame of

love misunderstood and cast aside

for lies that were never told

is all that remains of a forgiveness

that was asked for and offered

and then stripped away before it could breathe.

void

I wanted to write tonight,

to pull from the void

an expression of

the emptiness in me right now

and tell you how I feel,

to say something that mattered,

that might make a difference,

and change this moment

for both of us;

the problem is…

the void is just that,

and all I have to offer you

is nothing.

Of Prometheus

duskdeepened

The deepest hours of night pale in comparison to the abyssal depths of the artistic mind–a place where things unsafe and unmeant to be lurk waiting to be given life, shades of the horrors of Man that fortunately find little more than glimpses of life as a sparks extinguished as rapidly as they ignite. And we, the keepers of the arts, are the wardens of a great many mysteries. But for the tortured artistic mind, that soul in anguish and torn apart by the vices and vicissitudes of life and love, the monsters are real, and we become their servants. We are not misunderstood, we are not mad; we are simply not bound by the strictures of a world that does not want us or our creations, and cannot fathom the depths of our being nor decipher the ink that stains our souls. We are victims of our own making to the monsters we have freed, those abominations that those who are considered “normal” fear out of ignorance and misunderstanding. But they, our children, are our masters, and we, the makers of the unmade, their willing and condemned servants. We are the damned, confined to the world we create, limited only in our expression, consumed by the fires that we kindle. Yet it is truly only there, in the depths of the loneliness and despair thrust upon us by the rest of you that we, the forsaken wretches of love, find ourselves in what we create. And while we never ask for understanding, we dare you to peer into those depths and converse with we who burn the world. And in weighing your own limitation and finite existence, you will know us to be gods.

Musings From The Porch: The Storm & The Vigil

aesa

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” – Hunter S. Thompson

A year ago I wrote about sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Chicago, watching stories of the world unfold. The organized chaos of that day is starkly contrasted by the disorganized calm I experience now, sitting on my porch in the Indiana countryside, not so much watching the world go by, but rather -feeling- it go by. The occasional car, truck, or tractor rumbles along our ragged stretch of cracked and worn asphalt, but other than that, it’s a fairly sedate existence out here. To say it’s quiet is both an understatement and a falsehood, illustrating the contradictory nature of life.

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