Somehow,
There arose in you
A confusion;
You mis-placed the world
In these objects of desire
Of memory and
Obligation.

But
It is possible to walk away;
It is difficult, but possible.
It is discouraged, but it is possible.
It is possible and, ultimately, essential
To turn to these things and say:
        You are not me;
        You are not my life;
        You are not my home;
        You are not in my heart
        And you never were.
And leave them all behind,
Regaining your sanity
At the expense of all the things
You thought you owned,
But were in the end simply ballast
For the great being of your life,
Until the time came
When you were ready
To spread your wings
And fly.

Let us open all the doors
And invite the ghosts in.
Let us empty the cupboards,
Dig up all the bones
And lay them out: let there be war.

Let the wheels turn;
Enough of this stagnant peace
That is no peace at all.
The thundering lie torments me;
I am disgusted by the deceits that
Underpin it.
Better the honesty of war
Than the deceptions of a false peace.

Line up my enemies;
I will cut them down
And bow to their deaths.
I will honour them like brothers
Who meet me on the battlefield,
But for the cowards of this war
I bring only your burning house,
Your ruined fields,
Your broken family.
Be brave and die well;
Hell has a place for the coward
But the noble dead line the halls
Of Heaven, rejoicing.
Now, come, let my sword feast
On your nobility.

War on falsehood;
War on the idiots;
War on greed;
War on all that divides me
From you and
Myself.

Let all my enemies perish.
Let the dark and the light alike
Be equalised in victory or defeat.
But let there be war.

I will cut the wings from angels,
Pull the horns from demons’ heads;
I will wade through the blood of
Good and bad alike,
Because the war is endless.

Constantly arising,
Falsehood blemishes the page.
There is always the Foe,
Always the battle raging all around me.
For others, peace and the green field.
For me, the slice of sword
On shield
On skull
And bone.

(And now we sit here,
The silence growing vines
About our tongues.
Poisoned water in the well
And the list of crimes
Between us.
Let there be war.
Let the land burn.
Let the forests fall,
The mountains echo with
Blade on bone
Steel on stoney face
And all the armies of us
Exhaust themselves in a tide.
Let there be war.
Let the rivers run red
For a season;
Let the borders close
And all the songs be of
The bloody fight.

Kiss and make up?
Let there be war.
Turn the other cheek?
Let there be war.

The air is thick with lies.
The forests are tangled with briers.
The mountains are full of thieves
And the rivers are choked with weeds.
Let there be war
And purging
And the redemptive fire
Of death and glory.)

Fight me.
I said, ‘Fight me.’
Do not be understanding.
Do not yield for the peace.
Do not bend yourself
Any more
From the shape you were born to.
Who are you?
WHO ARE YOU?
Show yourself, truly, or not at all.
Stand on the dusty battleground
And fight me, as you are.

Screw politics.
We are warriors,
Or could be.
I cannot sit yet on the porch
And rock myself to senility
Telling tales of former glory
And the comrades I once knew.
The war goes on
All around us.

Fight me,
Then we can turn together
Towards the innumerable foes.

How can I know your strength
If you will not show me?
I do not yet trust your sword
Beside mine.
Those who have not fought,
Do not know one another’s shape.

How can I love a man I have not fought?
How can I love a woman who fears me?
Fight me.
Let me feel your strength;
Let me measure you,
That I may then love you,
Knowing who you are.

Let the heavens open
and arrows rain down;
Let Hell burst on the Earth.
So long as I have a sword in my hand
and an enemy before me,
I will never be displaced.

Do not curse me with peace.
I would fade like the captured tiger
Or the dark, cut flower.
Fence me around with Peace
And I will make War with it.

Bring me a war!
There must be a war, somewhere!
(For how can I know who I am without battle?
Though I have seen boys become Men,
Become corpses
In an hour,
I have seen such a flowering of life
Before Death
As I have never seen
In all the village halls
And householders’ days
I have ever known.)

Come here!
You!
Come to me!
I am not afraid to die in front of you,
Only afraid to die without living.
(And if I should die by your sword
Or your powerful word
Or your look at me askance,
I will die happy
And real
And full of blood and laughter and fire.)

Oh, do not let me die in bed!
Unless I was fighting there
A battle worthy of my death.

I know.
You think I am a thug
To speak thus of War.
Admit it!
Speak true words!
You see a brute, a warmonger.
An iron fool.
Listen to me.
I am playing my part.
I am playing my part.
Play yours!
Without fear.
At least I know what mine is.

Are you a child to cower in deception?
Be a man! Be a woman!
Ach.
Bring me someone real
To spar with,
I am sick of your foolish illusions,
Your pretensions of mortality.

I have nothing to hide.
Do you understand?
I have nothing to hide.
Nothing.
And so I am
A God.
Now fight me.

You want to haunt the kingdom of the Dead;
I will haunt you:
I will be the ghost to your ghost
Wherever you go.
All the skeletons of Hell,
All the swords of fury and despair,
All the twisting darkness and stairs of deception;
None of them will touch me
And I will prevail.

I will wait, in constant motion,
Until your ghost remembers.
I will crack open the Underworld,
Because I must.
I will break Death into pieces and plant it
Because I cannot do otherwise.
This is my name;
This is what I came to do.

I will chase your ghost through the garden
Where the black flowers grow;
I will lay all the colours before you;
Though it might take a month,
A year,
Or ten years;
If it takes the rest of my life,
I will not stop.
One day you will see the wildflowers
And the road of them behind you.

You are not dead;
Death has cast a glam on you
And now you wear a garland of shadows.
I have your crown of bright flowers,
I have the memory of Spring;
I have the taste of mint and hawthorn on my lips;
I have the sight of the first blossom in my eyes
And the warmth of the Sun on my skin.
Touch me; I am real;
It is you who is walking in unreality.
You who think you have already died.
I will be the Fury of your delusion.

They say that no one can rescue another,
That your salvation lies with you alone;
Let them rot;
Their words are made of card.
When they stalk the darkness,
I will pray for their deliverance
And that some lover follow their dark footsteps
And place flowers of love
At their deathly feet.

Because I must,
Because it is my name,
I will remind you:
You are not dead;
Your ghost is no ghost.
I will lay the flowers of colour beneath your feet
And, beloved, you will remember again to live.

Well, I’ve been down to the ashram
And I’ve worn the orange robes.
I’ve closed my eyes and visualised
Seven spinning, shining globes.
But, you know it doesn’t change a single thing,
However much I try,
(Because) I feel like I’m a hundred and five
And I think I’m gonna die.

I’ve been painted green and wrestled,
I’ve worn a crown of thorns;
I’ve fought with sword and staff and axe
With the hunter and his horns.
But whether I’m the sacrifice
Or being carried up on high,
I still feel like I’m a hundred and five
And I think I’m gonna die.

Now the Black Block’s throwing missiles
And the clowns are throwing flowers;
The police and politicians
Are invoking extra powers;
Now some folks are saying
that Armageddon’s surely nigh;
Oh man, I feel like I’m a hundred and five
And everyone’s gonna die…

The bank-man’s got me twisted,
He’s got me by the balls;
He sends a thousand letters
And makes a thousand calls.
I’m so goddamn broke it hurts,
And money just passes me by.
I feel like I’m a hundred and five
And I wish that I could die.

Well, my woman’s gone half-crazy
At the terrible fix we’re in.
It’s all that I can do these days
To keep her from drowning in gin.
Coz you know it doesn’t help us,
If we drink or we get high.
Sweet mama, I feel like I’m a hundred and five
And I think we’re gonna die.

Well, my brother’s lost in Peebles,
My brother’s in Peru;
They’re both as broke as I am;
Ain’t nothing they can do.
I’m overloaded with all this talent,
But the well is running dry;
Lord, I feel like I’m a hundred and five
And I think I’m gonna die.

My books just can’t get published
All my story’s told for free;
I can’t afford to pay my rent;
Gonna live in a fucking tree.
But even that won’t help me
In a tree-house in the sky.
Ah shit, I feel like I’m a hundred and five
And I think I’m gonna die.

But cursing’s not the way ahead,
Nor moaning all the time;
No matter just how goddamn hard it gets,
It just seems to be a crime;
I’ll just keep treading onwards
You know it’s not a lie;
If I live ’til I’m a hundred and five,
well hoka hey, sweet mortal life,
I’ll give thanks and praise
Even in the pitch-black dark, because
One day I’m gonna die.