Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

You chose it

We must -- must -- it is our responsibility. Please turn off, toss your televisions in the trash. This is the first step. Love everyone close to you. Television, all of it is lies. Lies. You know this. You know what's true, the truth is actually who all of us are. We are in essence the truth (we're parts of God). It's coming, you can feel it. Trust everything inside of your heart. You are . . . you made a choice to be here because you are LOVE. And, your children are LOVE. The Devil says you don't believe he exists. He picks at you because he can. Be not of the earth, just live on it. You chose to be here for a purpose. YOU chose it.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Purple and Red, the Pink and the White - by James Bychowski




The lord of all bones, the teeth and the flesh
The blood underneath, the organs, your breath

He cooks for a banquet, prepares the spooked fare
To spread in a garden on altars to share

With all of you kin, you spawn of the King
Who think that your dreams are touched by a Being

A man overhead, the fabric of space
Your father in heaven will not intervene

Chef lifts up a body then soaks a free hand
In pots boiling mixtures, the variance of men

He slaps the bare human spattering grease
Then works in the ointment ‘til her skin beams with heat

The woman’s back arches, her knees start to rise
She tilts her head toward the lord’s mordant eyes

Expecting salvation, a union combined
A lovely companion the tension untied

Flowers and warmth a mixture of blood
He’ll twist all her tissues connect a great love

Release an explosion that wipes out the flesh
Transports her essence out to the depths

Oh, how the picture expands in her mind
“Where does it come from?” she wants to know why

She’s stopped now to think, feels the grass on her feet
Looks at the lord who touches her cheek

The feeling has changed, she’s holding him back
Resisting a force that’s trying to crack

The cushion protecting, it’s holding her soul
The lord, the usurper, starts digging a hole

He’s whispering picks of tiny small shovels
Promising warmth while clearing a tunnel

The woman unwinds, she trips out to space
“Oh how I love the smile on your face!”

She’s moved to an altar, a small chapel garden
A section of stone surrounded by others

Some of them spinning, men hooked and seething
They moan for the same light, an injection of feeling

The lord floats above them and scratches the ground
He pulls out a border of trees all around

A thick wall of jungle grows up to a dome
They’re limited now, this temple’s their home

“No choices, no choices!” The lord taunts the King
“They’re mine ‘til you take ‘em, oh King Love Supreme.”

The King, yes he sighs an ambivalent breath
They’re all there to suffer a life until death

- James Bychowski -

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Pulled By The Fists - by James Bychowski



As he stood on a train holding a handrail
He told me he felt it sink into his thumbnail

A cold snaking shiver like wire through copper
At one end a hand wrapped in bundles of fiber

A miniature man, a janitor in workboots
Bent with conviction, he pulled with a purpose

He stood at the base, in the back of the neck
Inside on a bone, legs spread and his feet set

The shiver it crept, it moved through the wrist
It went on its way pulled by the fists

Of a tiny old man musty and used
An agent implanted to remember abuse

To remind him, he told me, that nothing is over
He said he was vile, of useless composure

The old man pulled harder, he poisoned the flesh
Up through the armpit approaching the chest

He said that it grew, a horror he told me
The vision, he did it, he hurt them, him only

A small pool of amber, a sap liquid collected
The form of a sadness he’d always protected

The yellow it bubbled inside of his throat
The old man cursed “Fuck off!” and brayed like a goat

The cackle increased, the sound stung his eyes
He told me he wanted to watch himself die

“Something!” he wept while he held onto me
He whispered “’The Scream’ was all I could see!”

That’s when I knew he’d been broken apart
His soul had been peeled away from his heart

- James Bychowski -

The Pale Lagoon - by James Bychowski



Radiant insight, the humans move past
A pitch swarm of spiders spin rum cataracts

The liquid white, the pale lagoon
 A breathing forest, a choir of doom

Bugs trickle from nests buried in logs
Black plastic and thin they cut through a fog

The tip-tap excitement, they’re always alive
Rushing toward victims like psychopath eyes

The force of the sphere rolling in space
Absorbed by the life forms that scratch on its face

A power of matter controlled by a king
The lord of erotic, the blood of a being

“Invite them” He says “Bring them to me”
“I’ll tear out their sunbeams, their purpose to be”

“You’ll whisper a kindness, touch their flesh with your love”
“Ha ha! I will show you what comes of your love”

Deep pools of the white source expand off the tips
Of thousands of longlegs excreting the drips

The screams of the wasted, their mouths can be seen
To drown in the essence, the taunt of the king

- James Bychowski -

The Air Near The Kitchen - by James Bychowski



There’s a place in the house, a belt of air near the kitchen
If he stands there it enters, it seeps in, it grips him

Forks and a mug, a wood-handled cleaver
Food smeared on the dishware, burnt pans, cooks his meals here

At night when he sits in the glow of a bulb
He watches the dark believes it’s her love

He covers his throat with the palm of a hand
Drives the tips of his fingers into neck muscle bands

He’d rather break windpipe, cough blood, die right there
Than let it, embrace it, believe that it cares

A gasp, jagged deep breath, labored wheeze of the cold
The dark forms a body, a face in the hold

Like the space under ship decks, the air near the kitchen
Becomes what he wants it, the love that’ll bring him

Up now and over he runs for the starlight
The creature curves toward him like flames from a church fire

The person, the being, this thing that’s been hidden
Returns to his body, a soot shape pulls the light in

He knows this, it wants to, it tries to pass through flesh
A sweep of his insides moves like voodoo cold kid breath

The hair in his scalp, pores pinch on his legs
Imagines the last cry of eons of dead

For them draw an inhale an expanse of the lungs
Turn back and go sit in the glow of the bulb

Tap fingers on wood grain, rock back and forth
A silent long heartbreak, the unalterable course

- James Bychowski -