I trod to prison on burning feet Accompanied both before and back By squadroned angels in heaven's black Receding to the abject divine; 5 They ferry souls upon their backs; I was trussed against the horizon's line But had no captors I that could see But my squad of angels to accompany me. I am John Brown and will not come down; 10 Cold murder of the one or the all. Spartacus defied when hard men called And deified more angels than God. My guilt has come and gone many times As I recalled or forgot my crimes, 15 Made meditation of zero my study Or swallowed riven demon's infinity Into the awed-white cavern of my face. My hands were bound in threads of blood; I struggled against harsh cordage once 20 And was blinded by a golden hood. Yet all about me I feel the wings Of my locust angels on everything. I am John Wilkes Booth and jumped to truth; Cold murder of the one or the all. 25 Strapped brine-soaked in an electric chair, Heaven lays stripped of its defense, Condemned skin and naked innocence. My delicate eye and fragrant hair Burn all evolution's inheritance 30 Back to the vagaries of chance. My future's ash yet designs a limit In the electrified eye that gives it, In my eye shot out by a blind round From a squadron's unmarked gun. 35 I am St Just and did as I must; Cold murder of the one or the all. The Executioner flips his lash In mockery of innocence: My guilt absolves his sin. 40 Justice stalks among tall gallows Concrete-secreted deep underground, Looks for his charmed dead men there And for balm of absolution peers Into every blue, angelic face; 45 In charity or error he seeks my own His salvation's fashioned hollow. I am Vanzetti and am dead already; Cold murder of the one or the all. Irrational murder has made him 50 One with the common tide Raising his spade with the bladed wave That falls to his own side; Splintered hands obliterate creation's heart Rend worlds to a red thoughtlessness; 55 By every thought he kills he's less. I am dead but still can chant All a passing artist's passions out, Interior echo of the outward shout. Spartacus defied when hard men called 60 And crucified more angels than God. Are my grim limbs, hanging inverted here, Above the midnight churchyards grave Above all that ghostly-priestly rant and rave All exalted sacrifice has won 65 All ecstatic triumph has known? All scatters backwards madness-chased Into a rolling blizzard-ball; Insect angels surround my ground And their wailing wings buzz-sing: 70 Whore or chaste, the world's laid waste Come kill the one or the All.
From the collection "Divine Revolt"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.