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Tear down your idols
and follow me
down the path of regret
where no sign posts mark your way
between the landmines and the flowers
and you must carve a swath
through dense, overgrown jungle
predators laying in wait
licking their lips
at the scent of your fear

Tear down your teachers
and follow me
to the city of night
where whores who once knew better
pick the detritus from your pockets
and you must fumble blind
fingers grasping at dicks and stilettos
comedians laughing and grabbing your ass
making good sport
of your secrets and shame

Tear down your parents
and follow me
through the alleys of blood
where razor-eyed dandies
trade your innocence for cash
and slather on the empty praise
fallen angels dancing
on the head of a pin
anxiously awaiting
your first unguarded moment

Tear down your morals
and follow me
in the ghettos of fire
where memories cower
begging to be released
and the reservations at the back of your mind
can bare their teeth and bite you
silicone politicians playing both ends
will be happy to offer assurances
that you’re on the road to freedom

Follow me
if you have the guts
and are so inclined
Just be certain
that you understand
you might not make it back

Max Mundan, Tear Down Your Idols

© David Rutter 2014

Follow me on twitter @dmr226

(via maxmundan)

Tyranny

By Israfel Sivad

The tyranny of the mind is a horrible thing.
An assault on the mind is the utmost disgrace.

Language flows, shifting, an amorphous creation
with no form, no body, only spirit floating through air.
I breathe. I suck my life. I taste the world,
and I exhale my soul in sound.

I defy all those who will abuse language!
To twist their souls to twist your soul
to twist this world into a hideous shape:
A beast, an animal, a monster,
a man devoid of his divinity.

To say a lie breaks only our contract
is a lie breaking our covenant:
A spear in the ribs of the Lord.
A sword through the neck of the martyr.
A thrust in the virgin raped on the altar.

And some would choose to wander blindly
through the sandstorm of a burning night,
tracking, though lost, dusty decaying steps
to catch a golden glimpse of the noble idol.

While I will regret any drop of poison,
any wormwood, ever split my swollen lips.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music composed, produced, and arranged by @Vitaliy-Rybakin
Thumbnail: “Bambi Posessed By Devil” by Alex Barry: www.blurzum.com

Beauty and the Beast

By Israfel Sivad

We can’t write this poem right now.
Don’t worry, we’ll come back to it.

We both know
language is meaningless.
That’s why I never say:
I love you.

I want to lay you down
on a bed of nails,
pinprick you in your soul,
watch you writhe and squirm.

After God unchained us,
we went straight to hell.
We had to fight the devil
in order to get our souls.

We’d been waiting
our whole lives for that.

I’ve still got a scar
from when you cut me.
How does it feel
to be with me again?

The devil looked at us.
He remembered us from before.
“That was a long time ago,
back when we were children.”

He called us to him.
He wanted, one more time,
in death, to try
to reach out and touch us all.

“Maybe,” you say.
“Maybe, I’ll try it someday.”

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music composed, performed, produced, and arranged by @vitaliy-rybakin
Thumbnail: “Beauty and the Beast” by Rogelio Ronco: rogelioronco.com/

Love

By Israfel Sivad

I love my pain.
It keeps me strong.
It keeps me whole.
You can’t have it!

I will never give
what makes me ache,
my heartbreak, to you.
I am the sum of my pain.

Do you understand?
I don’t think you do.
I tried telling you,
but you won’t listen.

I think I’ll have to kill you.

I hung your painting on my wall.
It’s sickly, with five forest rectangles
spaced throughout. Two make eyes.
One is a nose. The others – a mouth.
It’s a crooked face. The paint fades out.

It looks an awful lot like me.

I’m going to take your painting
off my wall. Spit on it. Kick it.
When it won’t break, I’ll use this knife.
Watch the canvas flutter out the window,
a wounded bird crashing down

to the street where it hits the ground.

Do you see your soul ripped apart,
glistening spit in the gutter?
A man picked it up, dusted it off.
There was nothing to save. He threw it away.
Are you happy now? I gave you my pain.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music composed, arranged, and produced by Nanook Sputnik
Thumbnail: Digital drawing by Rogelio Ronco: rogelioronco.com/

Asleep

By Israfel Sivad

He’s sick of lies.
He’s sick of fables.
He’s sick of stories
that help children
go to sleep at night.

He wants what’s real.
He wants what’s true.
He wants the nothing
that is everything
that he sees in you.

One night,
the child had a dream.
He closed his eyes,
and everything disappeared.

He screamed
for his mommy to save him,
but she had gone to sleep.
She couldn’t hear.

The child
tried waking up.
His eyelids fluttered,
but he was stuck.

He slept.
The nightmare
went on forever.
He woke up.

Everybody else had gone to sleep.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music composed, arranged, and produced by @marcello-messina —marcellomessina.net/
Thumbnail: “My Bacteria” by Alex Barry: www.blurzum.com

Getting Into the Character

By Israfel Sivad

I was writing for three bright nights.
What was I feeling – scared of – then?
White light was shining through my mind,
shining out through my sad, puppy dog eyes.

I was thinking that I was in Paris,
thinking that I like Paris a lot.
What did you think of Paris?
Maybe the nights were too bright.

Should we have been scared of the color white?

White light going off in my brain,
shining, snowing, driving me insane.
My friend, if you only knew,
you wouldn’t have to go through

everything you’re going through.
The snow is steam. It smokes.
Forget about everything else. Forget it.
There is nothing to fear about white.

Writing, everything
goes away, stays away
until tomorrow, sleeps

through the night in Saint Annie’s arms.

White light driving me insane,
but I don’t see it anymore.
I feel it here, can feel it now.
I found my character.

He never went anywhere.
He is the man in the trench coat,
scaring school children, driving them
insane with his stories of white nights.

Can you feel it, now,
feel it in the front
of your mind’s eye

staring at everything staring at nothing?

Nothing but black
reflecting white light,
conjuring satanic rituals
in the room beside our room.

I feel them there now –
voices chanting, incense burning,
fear, trembling. Torture screams
delight, one and the same.

Delight in the torture, the blackness of light!

I’m waiting on a call
from you, my friend. Everything
is pretty in Paris again.
Nothing has really changed.

I thought it was black, then,
but it was white. The night
was white as the day was black.
I was writing for three bright nights.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music performed, produced, and arranged by @gn0m0n
Thumbnail: “Close Calls” by Rogelio Ronco: rogelioronco.com/

Starburst

By Israfel Sivad

Last night, I made love to a vampire.
She was never able to kill me.
I left my notepad at her apartment.
If I don’t get it back,
I might put a stake through her heart.

But I could never hurt a woman.
They are too beautiful to see.
Even the vampire I met last night
looked like an angel to me.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music written, produced and performed by @the-atmospheric-science
Thumbnail by Rogelio Ronco: rogelioronco.com/

Padded Walls

By Israfel Sivad

How silly I must look
to everybody:
sitting around
my apartment,
listening to records,
writing words
on padded
walls.

There’s another black
mark to mark 
my place here
in this world.
I keep records
by recording
my thoughts
for nobody.

I have nothing
to think about,
to worry about,
to do anything
about. Nothing
to do about
anything except
everything.

My whole life
is padded walls.
My black marks –
writing on
the great wall
we built
to keep out
the hordes.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: IsrafelSivad.com
Music composed, performed and produced by The Atmospheric Science
Thumbnail: “Kites” by Alex Barry: www.blurzum.com

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