To the Red Gates

A bold bolt of rose lightning
Bids me sizzling its chosen bowman be,
    A filial Philoctetes
    Despite of our history.

So few know the maiming game
Half so well as swollen love can tell;

Knotted lots of condemned confederates
Go rolling down the slay-yard line,
Conveyered to red hell and devastation,
Again.
           What redeems the fugitive from his red pen?
(Funny, nes pas?)  How escape the mirrored Mall
    to slow roast in the hopeless Wilderness 
Again?

Monet's mash of fabulous figments
hand-ground to red renown....
Cezanne's carnival of pink icebergs
sailing house-high intra-Ardennes....
Beethoven's beaten TAA-DUMP,
or Baudelaire's lurid la-lahrrr....

All are the agony of gangsters
Throttled or thrilled by moment's one consciousness,
Exhorted from the dumpy swamp
That beats and retreats in the fetid chest--

O soully broken brothers!
Taken in angina and angst, past mists
To see pantsless God Our Father
And never again live well as worms.

His love has hoovered your harrowed bowels, 
His meaning's memes flay mincemeat from your lives, 
Embattled brethren of the happy pit, 
Giggling piglets skinned in velvets
Wanton wannabes
Voltaged with vim,
Summed nothings who see
The glory of Him.

Alpha and Omega, faith precedes
Phantom efficiencies of famine and feast, 
Trust in the somethings our nothings provide, 
Vomiting vacuums for lebensraums, 
Aching for spaces no spaceman divines,
Only    oh   aum   ah   oh   our   holy   um
Can freight the frigate
We sail to red gates
That frame the lonely bowman
Asleep in zero's nonman's land

 triggerfinger itched by lightning