All Hallows' Eve Operetta

Shattering confessionals

Seven days the rickets came

One by one in the dusk howls

Fortunes whispering the ends of worlds

Breathing out the spirit of an age

In the dissolution of the prophecy

Seven schizophrenic traces

Divulging the sins of the Father

In the isolation of His case

Waves of sadness sewing shut His eyes

As He listened to the vagrant trails of the fallen
Their downcast glances a triangular encasement

Seething at the teeth

To drive spears through black hearts

Suspended by the Technicolor threads of fluorescent gods

Generated in the arbitrary currents

Of psychopathic tendencies

Oriented towards the bottom line

Hung on the greed a bottomless abyss of black souls

Enclosed in the self fitted straight jacket of public disclosure

Drafted in certificates of death awaiting thy name

And on the seventh day

At the eleventh hour

The white robe that hath heard the Word

Of the devils cast below the bevel of debt

And fishing for a line

He confessed that He had never lent a hand

He reveled in their screams as they plummeted

And crossed His heart the imposter

Hoped to die to clear His palette for God

Knowing the world would recede behind Him

Once the colors were slit and left to run together

In the flash before thine eyes

The Technicolor congealed in turquoise skies and desire

And at the thought of death

’Las the generator had kicked in

The changing hues of silence at the confessional

Shattering the epiphany and lifting the circumstances of its longing

Odalisque à la mode

Is it the paper or the Word

That crumples like a piece of nothing

Shattering the silence of the prayer?

And in the momentary still

Each object of perception represents its existence

To a mind that had let go

In order to clear itself

And resolve the long night in the brief mourning

Just a thought’s length to reflect upon itself

Was a measure to mask thy humming

Thy indifference at the pulpit

All the colors coming back to life

All the odors

The fruits of a soul’s labor

Not quite unlike nothing smirks the Word

Prost

A toast to the grave intellect

Having consummated itself in boredom

Having consumed itself in sloth

Gluttoned on the vagrant sins of the fallen

To wanderlust betrothed

A madness ’tis to watch thy mind

Without stabbing the envy of the spheres

Up against the walls

What brand of psychosis draws your poster little one?

Glass encasements of organs

Blown in on the winds of hatred

The violent swells of existential jealousy

Pouring out thy confessions for new life

’Las the moment was strong

When thy ground contorted thy face

To dispel of reason

And as such thy memories’ volatility

Susceptible to corruption

Thy black heart what worth is thy confession

If it is a vagrant tale spun out the threads of thy insanity

Šialenstvo the dream sequence

Godless dogs waking from their deaths as slaves

The pinch of God a caving of their backs

A downward glance

As they marched on the admittance

Requested by thyself

If only to clear thy head

Force thy humility back to thy pace

Which thy despair is only a masquerade of

A hallucination

Fools en masse of wise men

A social leering to be played

On bellowed notes of ego

To posture in the vision truth

Reaped from naked imbalance

The chemical engineer

Fabricating compounds

In divorce his poor to sanity

Fragmented deposition

Having crumpled all the constructs of Word

And so soon that feigned a symmetry

To fill the blackened space

To measure the depth of the dilettante spirit

Aftermath defragmentation

And too soft to mark the other eyes

Allow so stark a meet ’midst tense and time

An anger to heart’s distaste

Scowls lips to liquor and roulette

And not a chase

What child wants to give thyself

To a deeper world’s embrace?

Listen to them

The children of the night

What music doth they make

À la fantasie profonde

The romance language it danced in ceremony at the garden

Betraying the loss of innocence

He leveled with His company

All conclusions that venture beyond solipsism are corrosive

The manifestation of thy own terrible power

He'd been confessing to Himself all along

Embodying each sin of the seven

Along the seven days of Creation

In the void of dear time

A hallowed eve

The spirit dancing its black hearted madness

In an uprising of the fallen

’Gainst the Technicolor threads

Generating eternal gratitude

Pozycjonowanie

The truth was never sought but revolution

And after many of the sun

It is the Word presupposed its antithesis

In the measures of the spheres

The muse would strip before thine eyes

To delight thy senses

In the perpetuation of a madness

Hath writ its own demise

Stabbing in the dark it struck itself

What little death

Breathing out the spirit of an age

To rustle the ferns of a Technicolor whim

The thread was severed at the confession

From His mind new life became

And as the timed lines of straight reason broke sequence

He was free to dance on an open plain

A stray bullet to the black heart forced its breath

Out a hemlock comatose

Come out of the void my inner child

Life is but a dream sequence we are generating

In the absence of Technicolor power

The storm had distracted time

In concordance with the passing of the fallen shadows

To the lightless reaches of Him

An absinthe resolution 
The gardens of remembrance submerged

And the violin perched like a hawk
On the Technicolor branches of a mosaic tree 
The waves bound in the darkness


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com