… the beginning.
With purpled haze and showered stars, the crowds heaved toward heaven, and bared their chests, with savage eyes that screamed alarms, who played with notes and placed hypnotic words, into colors embracing their nightly rage. I dreamed this rape, when all soothed purple; in mysterious beat, that stalked our moment in time; at the edge of our enlightenment.
God mend thine ev’ry flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law.
These apparitions danced, while the crowd drummed black, and with jungled code they conversed, lashing fiery tongues, until our black faced angels; loosened their hold. Oh worshippers, it was his vulgar-ripped hands, who captured our hopes, who demonized our little tap dancer; the Sermon Dream.
And it was replaced, our faith, our faith, our faith; with marbled bodies morbid, with murderous overtures, and hooligan priests, their despicable acts, the white barbarism. I saw these heavenly angels, who drank us drunk, les foules fâchées, je prie pour nous; poor mobs of seer poets, who lived in filthy hotels, with the distracted ghost of Madame Rachou.
Among the ancients, the artists, the Egyptians, injections of brutishness, and smoke from burning testaments, our moment reflected black to back, that found us huddled under hair, that warmed our skin with naked lightning, thrown from one hit peddlers, the movement went downtown with snickered grins and bust line pimps who fed us our chocolate dust. We ate their scraps and drank their piss, sipping to salvation, without the blood from He, who is never coming.
… the acts of violence, unspeakable joy.
The Angel birthed a disciple to wait, to sip his grace then dance below, to visit our tombs, and pray for He, whose second act, a delayed departure, flashes Broadway’s darkened corners.
The showered stars, the rancid thoughts, the hollowed chests; tracks of pity and fallen words, naked on porcelain lambs, cracked with hope that someone scratched; the King of hearts, the purpled belief, the tap dancer’s Dream.
Our faith, our faith, our faith; our bodies become the overture, the awkward rhythm, the Blood and Bread, the grace from He; who dreams of armageddon, then pleasures Himself with hymns of praise.
… the waters encroach.
Our fingers plug the desert, while waters gently pour; we lap dance grunt, panting to the written testaments; in mud, in blood, on the skinned infants who lost their chance.
We danced with a beat or three; to the rolling blankets; the humanity lost, and the gentle touched, by cold and rigid toes; crossed for the Calvary and furious charge.
The priests of marble, who prayed to Him; were found holding the lanterns, sweet trinkets, fast bullets and fresh water boogie; while the dark was lit, as a guide to His arrival. Hallowed by The name whose eyes openly screamed, who played with notes and fed the words, into colors embracing our nighttime rage.
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!
Barry Comer 2010 – Illustration 2015
Categories: America, beat poetry, David Hockney, Decline, hand, Illustration, insanity, Jesus, Leon Trotsky, line art, Pen and Ink, Pen and Ink Illustration, pencil drawing, portrait, Self Portrait, selfie