Rumblings

More of the same. I can never tell if this is something good or mere blather. You be the judge.

This is a fairytale, a
Frantic fracturing of fumbling fables with
Manic metaphors and malicious magnanimity.
Ye yo-yos yearn for youth, and yell out your
Dirty deluge, and dig deep into death's dark
Shadow and shame, showering silhouettes with
Favors forgotten by fortunate fiends. For
Love is like life, and that life is the light of
Hearts hollowed whole by hated happenings,
Crushed to contain the cold concoction of
Primeval perdition. Please place all passes in the
Fire and flames, for foolishness is forged into
Righteousness, a revolution that rights all religion, and
Wakes weary wanderers from witless whims and
Brings beneath the billows the bleeding benevolence of
All-out altruism, augmented by adversity,
Sealed with sweet sounds of savor and
Favor from fearful figures that form forever the
Line lost to love and life, lifted to larger
Horizons, heaved unto hope half-heartedly
Known by the know-nothings of night knolls
That think to trap the tempest and tapestry of time in tragedy so
Divine and delicious that deeds are dumb to deliver the
Full flavor and fantasy of fulfilled fortune and
Mystery mingled with mirth and men. Memory
Calls the cold killers of childhood to catch a
Sight of seamless sounds and syllables sent sailing on
Wind and wave, wishes and whims, the water and the
Blood boiling with big business, bouncing with
Glee over golden gaps that grow with gladness,
Till the tricks and traps of timeless torture are
Lost to love and life and light let loose upon
Mere mortal malformities. Might
Cannot count the cost, cannot crawl with care, cannot
Violate vile volition, a victim of vicious vivisections and
Delusions done by deaf dealers of darkness and
Night. No one knows the new news nailed to
Every earthly enclave and encampment, except the
Still small simpletons who sold their souls for a
Cup of cold crimson cleanser, curiously cured of
Old oddities, and offered as obligatory oblation to
The towering terror that tells all tales with truth and
Beauty bound with bonds broken by
None. Never near to nothing, the Neverland nuisance
Mesmerizes our meek mimics and murmurs, until
Every evil incantation is evicted, and enlightened
Plowmen park their perilous psalms in praise of power
Fallen in form, fearless in feature, fathomless in fact.
Lift lightly your lithe limbs and limber loves, and
Sing with sounds sought by souls still sinking in
Haughty hands, heavy hearts that have heard
No knowledge of nightmares nevermore. Noise
Quietly quickens the quirks and queer quintessence of the
Shady silence where sober souls sleep and show no signs of
Fearing the phantoms fraught with force and fright,
Hallowed hauntings of heavenly heart heaved
Upon utterly unsuspecting unities unbelievably
Broken into bits, till black bowers break the back of
Countless calling caricatures that cry and cackle at
Light left lingering on the lisp of longing.
We are the weary ones. We have no webs to weave.
Leaves like luminous liquid leave our limbs, and leave us
Naked and no more, never to know the nearby
Piercing pitch of pleasure preaching and pleading:
Jesu contra mundi.
We wreak our wills with witless wanderings.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Ramblings

I have no idea where this came from. It just came to me a minute ago. I am presenting it here without revision or rework. Enjoy.

This is a sob story, a
Slick spin on the selective situations of sinners and saints,
Twisting and turning, a tall tale with terrible
Convulsions and convolutions of cerebral cracks that call
Deep down to the desolate and dreary deliberations of the
Wayward wisdom of the wicked and worldly wannabes,
Saints soon to be silenced in shadows and shades,
Entombed in endless ecstasies of evaporation, executions
Woven in wombs of weary wanderings and whimsical
Plots to peel the person into pieces, and prepare
Souls to sing and sink into shallow sealed stalls
Meant to measure the method and madness, the means to an
End enveloped in excruciating examples of
Love let lose to live and light the life of
Mice and men and monsters. Medieval
Tapestry talks of times that tell of tremendous
Upheavals and utterances unleashed to undercut
Fools and follies, filling future fairytales forgotten by
Manic monstrosities of metal and meat,
Confused by callous cranks for children's
Dreams and desires, dealt devilishly by the damnable
Lies left to linger and loiter in the lungs of
Passersby and pastors perched to preach the
Abominable aroma of all-consuming
Death and desolation. Dealers of darkness
Have whole hells and hell holes to hide their
Deadly desperations, doings designed to delve deeper into
Secrets and solidarities spoken by soldiers and
Lovers, the lonely leftovers of a liberty and language
Never known till now. Neverland nuisance
Haunting hollowed holes, humble habitats of
Former friends and friars and freaks feeling
Absolutely abandoned by the aboriginal abnegation that
Stains the strains of solemn sleepers still slicing their
Good and ghastly graves. "Going to Gehenna" is the
Favorite film of familiar faces and friendly
Spirits set to sabotage the sober sight that
Recalls revolution and redemption, retribution and
Perdition, pointing to peace and pardon
Left lying in a lowly location. Lords and ladies,
Feel the fever of forgotten fire, frozen and fragmented,
Till the talk and toast of the town is telling
Itching ears incalculable implications of
Dying deity: disastrous definition or dire deduction?
Enchant the embalmed enablers evermore
With words that wound and whisper their way
Out of our oscillating overkills and over
Hills and homes that hope to have harrowing
Knowledge that knows neither noon nor night:
Pax Padre;
Enter Immanuel to enlighten the end.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Tolkien the Modernist: "Writing out of himself..."

From Verlyn Flieger's book A Question of Time:

A story need not be about a particular war in order to show its effects. Nor does it have to have a contemporary setting in order to mirror contemporary thought. Indeed, quite the contrary. The most effective commentary on an age or an event is as often as not oblique rather than direct. The nursery rhyme "Humpty Dumpty" says as much about the perils of kingship as does Lydgate's Fall of Princes, and Huckleberry Finn is as telling a piece of social commentary as Das Kapital. Tolkien is too often dismissed out of hand as an anachronism, a contemporary Pre-Raphaelite trying to pretend that the Renaissance and the Age of Enlightenment never happened. On the contrary, any thoughtful reading of his work that looks below the surface will show that he is in fact quite a modern thinker, dipping into the past for the stuff of his story but reworking it for the age in which he lived and felt. [...] His creative energies kept pace with the times, consciously and unconsciously recording for his audience their world and worldview, their defeats and renewals, their despairs and hopes. We write what we are, and Tolkien wrote not just out of his scholarship but out of himself and out of his response to this best and worst of times that is the twentieth century. Writing out of himself, he dared to be of a time not his own, and in doing so he made a profound and lasting comment on his own time.