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 

Seven Sins of Freedom (Wild Horses)

I watched a thousand flock of thoughts

Scatter like roadside leaves in a fall gust

On a morning ride caught the current

Like the pigeons of European nostalgia

Shifting along the New York avenue

In some vertical representation

Of the mad path of errant passion

Empty lust in the fashion of nothing

Soaking in the early morning rain with grace

And waiting on sunbreak to show their light

Those thoughts that could not bear

The critique of a reality we did not quite believe in

Yet seemed to be the consensual acceptance of the haut bohème

The capitalist

In post-contemporary chic

The prevailing taste of the moment

On the cusp of the prophecy

Anticipating trends

The poetic repetitions of communal mood swings

A harbor for individual expression

A chance to disappear

Into the allowance of apathy

Held in disregard for the sake of an ontological resonance

The trends of a language

A mathematic

Déjà vu au courant

The locus of the current style

A wind that caught thy sails

And measured the meter of thy expression

Tailing poetic

Each pigeon of thought

Safe from the hawks of capitalism

So long they flew in unison

So long the algorithm of trend was their logic, their hold.

Seven empty sins filled the city of dreams

With white lies of express distaste

The rabbits slipping into their holes

And sealing their fates

Was an eerie quiet in the ash of passion

Set free

To roam in arbitrary motion

The cold trails of reason

Whose only guide was a severe taste

An unforgiving pretension

Dismembering itself to allow for growth

For the reconceptualization of an arrogance

Imprisoned by the categories of free thought

Yes as it was freedom

Was the new tyranny of you

Postured for fear of that emptiness

That with a cold smile

Conducted the soul theft

Of the only speciality

Accused of a soulless existence

It was a parody of its own hollow fate

Dancing with the dreadful mime of positivity

The measured sins of a freedom late

In the misappropriation of the muse

And now thy reflection in the glass apple

Was disgusted at the sly smiles of spekulants

Such that a rotten apple was such taste

And the opacity of the black glass was impenetrable

Betraying my youth in my hunger for dreams

And maybe you would usher me through the fall

For I saw the light

It was just a steady flame behind a transparent wall

The shadows merely the auras

Of vagrant passions I’d been dreaming on

For the rabbits had scattered

At the sight of the Three Kings

And I was amongst them

The heart in the spades and the diamonds

The lover in the dark glass

Cast under the bridge

With the grace of wasted luck

A lady stumbling home to her fortune

Her diamonds in the jade stone of her class

Chasing the sunrise hallucinations of a productive mind

Fireflies on the water

We reach for in our desire to be God

Floating on the sea

Even catch but must let go

My friend I held on tight

As the beauty had been shrouded in the veil of ego

On the tail of fantasies

In the Technicolor soul of the world

The fluorescent traces of chemical essences

Fabricated gods or idolizations of emptiness

And their arbitrary categories of good and evil

’Las see all was black and white

And I’d keep burning the same candle

That had birthed my taxidermical imprisonment

In a corporate embodiment of psychological hierarchy

Embedded in egotistical allowance

If it weren’t for you

See for me all was black and white

My words that cleaved for white lies

Like rabbits that cleaved for white fur

Even all was blushed in black

The dark recesses of solitude aged like wine

In the basement of dreams

In the cellar of enlightenment

The hollow of the light outside the cave

The blackest wash of all that could be white

Yes all was soot in black

Except for you

A real color either in the light

Of suns or errant flames

A real touch amidst the shadows

Even I was abrasive, dramatic

I ask you fill the gray

With all the light of the rainbow

That the muses had been searching for

In their neverending minds

In the misappropriation of their currency

And done sweet intellect

Caress

The poet had died in the gutter

Created in the image of nothing

Blossom Earth

This ground I’ve filtered for endless lives

Endless nights

The cool dew of morning

An unforgettable taste perennial

Tomorrow is always around the corner

Even in the winter

The ineffable victories of the intellect had won me over

The only question left

Was the abyss of the feminine deity in my soul truly stilled?

Lahoda jahoda having swallowed her sweet self whole

And the only answer was that only time could tell

Always waiting to see what unfolds

The white rabbit had lured me into her black cave

And feigned to steal my soul

Kneading the silences to carve the vision

The stone pillars of European nostalgia

Ran with the waters of thy silent sentiments

Shining through the fog on a recession to infinity

The elegant horses of fashion

Braying in the evening comatose etiquette

Coming on the wild throes of night

The masqueraded outlet of the repression

’Las the shadows were failing me

They were hiding in themselves

And burning the loose threads of their torn jackets

The heat of their passion too strong in those shadows

To pay mind to the cold

To expand the vision

Walk into the light dear self

Abandon the shadows that would leave you sulking alone

As such only products of thy imagination

Walk through the remnants of night

In the coming of dawn

And let them fall into their blackness

Cling to the sun

Cling to the golden hair

The rays of light that clean would dismember

The sewn limbs of thy nightly struggle

That would leave them behind in the thirst for new life

The horses racing through thy mind in anticipation


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com 

Hemlock Comatose (Morte)

Rise the night’s droplets

Streaming panes of westward flight

The dawn a red flare in the umbrage

With you I slept

Careless for tomorrow

With you my light did pierce

The dark hold of slumber

And usher the overlook the hidden paths

The rabbits that cleaved for white fur

’Las all was blushed in black

Except for you

The golden edge of the purest light

Captivated my errant wanderings

And held dear their course

To blissful end

A messenger from darker paintings past

Meandering the streaks of light washed space

The kingdom of clouds will reign

And coarse decree would sever beauty

Her gestalt oppressor

Your majesty a matriarch

Rest the deconstructive tendency

Where naught is left to spin

And hold the cobalt sky

Thy epitome

Again the fog descended

And the history was a strong rye

Absinthe tint

And it disappeared on ghosted mezzanine

From which the piano once had played itself

Had once composed of dreams

Laid upon the dusty shelves of afterthought

Now just washed

Openly discreet the light was sharp

It punctured the shadows

Their orbs of dark energy

To cake the running waters

In bashful hints of smoke

She lit a cigarette to spark disgust

Though the rolled papier

It tingled like a flake of bliss

Flittering in the ballet of devilish class

And haughty intoxication

Steeps the whiskey breath in arrogance

Rivers that carve out the deep valleys of solitude

An eastern unity approached in layered tiers

On the western descent

To the harsh and swirling abolition of reason

To its blithe reconstitution

Follows the fearful high

Skim above the eddies where the river is a trap

As the shadows move the light of day

To cling to that which bears

And only you were in my mind

To keep the air anew

As the balletic aura discounted history

For the golden city was pure

The river striated by the greater swathe of time

The derivative of motion

Fall the day’s parchments

To a feast owls screeching of the night

And there was you to keep the light disclosed

All the shifting and the rain

Held clear

Held trusting

The old haunts of the West

An ontological stalking ground

Feasting on the sinews of former tapestries

Looming in the walls the alley the hemlock imbibed as sacrament

And where the darker painting had been hung

Take your time a suspended death

Now washed out and over in vibrant color

In new life the morning star’s trinity

A light that fell for the evening chime

The twinkle of the hooded owl’s eye

She took long drags in the intersection of worlds

Deep rifts of time and place

Closed with the still of impotency

The devils passed into the esteem

Of a new Bohemian night

The maroon netherworld that touched the cobalt sky

In clean approach to appellant sin

The spheres are silent in the end

Movement to movement a lagging breeze

Drawn out the intellect its vagrant gaps

All fallen on the deaf ears of a glass figurine

Demystifying of the shrieking muse

Writing my body into the night

Became a foreigner to me

And there was you a new light to burn

’Las the light was much more pleasant

In its soft warmth than its aging fire

And this soft light would I to cling to

To hold my humble ruse

Beg hold the light

Even it’s unbearable

The vessel howled as it plunged

The bottomless tunnel

Even desperate it’s infinity

Sought laden rest in the black recesses

The clean light slanting and fading

The posthumous evening fog

Evanescing out thy time distraught

And parched transitionless sleep

Gentle time was naught thy clockwork heart

Racing for the close the dawn of black

Remembering the open shine

Willows of curtains bellowing the shafts of remnant

Hold your essence into onset void

And nightless sky a darker cobalt

Preserving what aura beauty singed the day

Would hold dear unto the hastening red dawn

A rapture was your thought

I kissed the born of shadows’ density

Aloft the falling skies

Colors’ grade the streets of days’ last ending

One long night bereft

Except that you would I be holding

Rejuvenating the spirit of its sugars

The blood of oranges a glucose meme

On roads that wound the tree of life

Out from concrete reality

The harsh wall of abstracting season

Dear logic the attorney of reason

Incorporating an intangible existence

In the communal opposition of the spirit

Resisting the gravity of cold truths

That left no space for lullabies of enlightenment

Sleeping on an age

Which in its farthest reaches

Destructured humanity its natural essence

And left us to roam the locus of desire

Quite absent of its impetus

Quite bereft of astral derivative

’Tis always quiet coming down

And still in the wandering dissension

There was you to cling to

And that it was my folding

To turn my eyes to sea

And seek the other shore

In this very life we’re holding

In this abyss we’re seen

Beauty the betrayal of appearance

Taking precedence of becoming

A cobalt dream

Gestalt the murmuring

Hollow the shells of evil

It was a relished scene

And you were humming

And the empty streets still dead of dreaming

Clung to the sin like fat tissue

Can you hold the light forbear disclosing?

Reveal the darker shade

In the cloak of hollow shame

The guilt of ages not one’s own

Yet forced to hear the drumming

Dancing on the waters of refracted time

A great gap sprung open

For the truth was far more dense

Than time had ever shown her humming

Sleep little child

Life is but a dream we’re running

And the walls were closing in

Except that you were on the podium

Except that you were speaking of the age

Fearless of becoming

The new film of skin on the grit scars

Of western history

The heart would keep on drumming

A perfect slip into the long of night

What shadow were you courting?

And what ether would sooth my aching hips

Still in the auras of potent blunts?

The music grazed off her lips

A prolific silhouette against the blinding white

The reflections of a cobalt star

Wrapped in the lingering haze of departure

The West was fading on the run

A wild dream it was

And only to you was I now coming

My carrier across the delving rift

Sheer time save face

The fjord was a rupture on the coast

The other shore was lunging out to sea

To capture me

Bring me you still sunning

Beneath cobalt skies and desire

And I thank you for the humming

It was a steady light this fire

Across the night I’m burning

The dark orbs a light simmer of perfection

Stained emerald suns

That had set through the fog

Condensed upon the close of history

And you were a clean shine

My instinct was a tracing to

The papier crumpled and ashed like a flake of nothing

The shards transparent like a sheet of ice

In a flight of dreams that I was skating on

Gazing on your sky

And sunning
Caught the rise of the East

Outside my curtains’ fantasies

There expected a splendid evening harbour


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com