Challenge 102 - Rapture
 

[b]rap·ture[/b]
[i]n.[/i]
1. The state of being transported by a lofty emotion; ecstasy.
2. An expression of ecstatic feeling. Often used in the plural.
3. The transporting of a person from one place to another, especially to heaven.

[i]tr.v.[/i] [b]rap·tured, rap·tur·ing, rap·tures[/b]
To enrapture.

I'm thinking maybe but maybe not.

Reserved for the former.

[B]Prose in Grass
[/B]
And I sit
Watch the sun blink twice
But I kneel
Kiss the lips of grass
And dilate

In a bed of eyes and petals
I prod acclaim open mouthed
Flirting with threads of regard
But my sorrow and devotion
Are blank compared to her ambience

I could rob
Such allure of its guise
But I slump
In papier-mâché
And staples

A ravaged veil of tribute
To an endless pious beau
Rapture of uncounted blinks
Her smooth chest below my time
And my steady birth has just begun

I kiss the lips of grass
And dilate

[b]The Stench of Purity Biting[/b]

Enlightened as a road-crossing deer
Or comforted by blanket black's fluent sphere
The last six months are even clear
The best memo ever boycotts Mir
Which vaporises to a snowflake in atmosphere

Fluid, colder, sharper swords
Now further untainted by awards
Piercing with harpied "Oh, Lords!"
Power cords cut, a morningstar applauds
A counselor anointed by twisted ignoreds

Cyberjunk John Browns drinking Jim Bean
Or Jack Daniels mixed with the blood of James Dean
Black cats gated by a mannequin's dream
Miller tests cleaning a diesel-sweet latrine
A soldier's life-giving canteen

The boxing match of the yang and the ying
Seen and expressed as the next great thing
Sing-song voices talk, gravel voices sing
Fairytale-based fascists sleeping on the wing
Emperor liberals on their 20 degree swing

The nightmare friends, their ghoulish crew
The stove-bubbling pot of traditional stew
The hystericals shrieks of "It's so true"
The fight-back of a life in review
The chosen many hang from burning yew

He has existential crises to pass the time
Snorts salt, into his eye squeezes lime
A shot in the dark, a victimless crime
The rapture calls like a shouting mime
The battle-scarred all seek the sublime

Fighting the system from the inside admits
The crushed body jams gears for a few splits
The reckoned morals of the future sits
Fully footnoted to eminent wits
Programmers playground swap binary bits

Conical columns of atmospheric street lighting
By which I read Socrates Johnson's writing
The noughts of the realm are fighting
The knights of the real are alighting
Cruciform junction demon's glanced sighting

Tour-charred fruit orchards yelp with you and yours
While we're all just sweat from the pause
The flea and fly fly fleeing through flue's flaws
Bursting through windows on possible cause
Mortared brick, knock on knackered back doors

Like guitar tones and glass-eyed moans
Bottled fear and blood-speckled groans
Interest-free food and fat-free loans
Chained to a cubicle by liberation phones
The blues rhythm of destiny's clones

A punk with few worldly cares that
From a wordwide prison breaks as a rat
Unstapled from a board, wiped from a mat
That is only a mistake to be burnt at
The spitting crackle from the flaming fat

A chemical reaction sees you fly or drool
The left on light tempts you into its pool
An offbeat snare soundtracks the grave-dancing fool
Drawn by the promise of a deadly jewel
It is only the perception that brings the cool

The bottles that wait patiently by the sink
For a special occasion, like a celebratory wink
Or really needing a f[i]u[/i]cking drink
But with this out of sync, suspect shrink
On the brink of misty pink and God Inc.
The moment's now, slug it down, don't think

SON OF A THOUSAND FATHERS

Sequester in seclusion
Shoulder the weight of the ruse
Searching for an alliance to
A higher purpose...unconfused

Perceive mystery beyond the word
Where commonality lies
adhere to practices disregarded
by the shortness of this life

See it in the mirror, see it in the eyes
See it in the fathers son
Nothing can stop this slide

This one is a dreamer
Authalic Projections
From a scattered mind
that maps a road uncharted
What does he hope to find?
Where will the string unwind?

Aversions to a consequence,
A lesser road through experience,
Nothing can save you now,
Nothing can save this life

No more riding through the past
Ghost towns left behind
In the heart an uneasy peace
of rapture re-defined

See it in the mirror, see it in the eyes
See it in the fathers son
Nothing can stop this slide

[B]1.27.2006[/B]

This is a private rapture.

With a succession of receptionists,
nurse-geisha-doll-domina-card shark bitch
and its home from now on and I've run out
of little sick pills and everything
tastes like window.

This is what counting bars looks like on a Friday
and introspection changes peripheral vision so there are places
where you can be taught blindness and you can make friends
with the wafting odor of the rats nests with their trains of beef
steadily aching from lack of recycling and before you know,
you are out on the street and the restless earth
looks much cleaner with your tongue resting
along its cleft palate and with each slow lick,
the very marrow is inhaled in its primordial soup,
the way it was meant to be eaten
long before the French decided to place limits
on gourmet because their language allows them the freedom
to choose, to change
meaning and what means the world today
will sound like fluff in a few hours with no one
left on the sidelines to protest
this dumbing down, this singular little death
of language when lucid.

My squiggly alphabet is the precursor
to my throat and the letter O sounds the way it does
because the larynx, that precious foghorn
knows no other way to convey the rapture
of the circles of unending lines, pulsating
in spirals, deeper still and faster and louder
until it escapes the confines of the skeleton-
the outer world stripped of oxygen
makes it sound so much harsher.

My letters to my mother are saved in newsprint
not because I don't care about the trees but because
I do - there is no easy way to broadcast my thoughts
simpler than having gestalts engrave them
on cadavers with their identities masked by acres of pulp,
unopened and unread, I think she waits
in a thankless state of grace
where every second conveys a single word
from among the piles of paper-airplanes on my shelf-
She will piece together this epiphany
two years later when my telepathic papers will have
run their course.

These are the things
only the pavement knows and you can't know them
because unlike me, you're sober and its Saturday already.

[B]The Facade of Our Own Faces [/B]

These letters in the sky
Etched deep by the crosshairs of humanity
Seem to only tell lies
And I will still stand here
Cursing culture and its lofty latency

The sparrows do not sing high
The concept of high was lost
When in rapture we unleashed

Pick up, after the maul
Give birth to black and red
The manifold tunnels fall
Sole over soul in murder

When the cave collapses
Groves of trees fill in the desolate crater
To once again stand proud
Amongst natives of late
Fort Greenville will not ebb the thought of the crowd

[B]Waves Of Delta [/B]

The bees in my head wake and flutter,
wheel in circles around my mind stinging,
like they're shuffling the inside out.
They will die to force me awake and stutter
in remembrance of another day.

Lucid dreams gather for a temperamental sleeper,
far away from the gripe of consciousness.

Clutching it from the rapture of morning I
Blink in fustration of the open curtains
that filters through the light for an indecent bat.
A red-eyed epilogue of a hypersomniac.
I shut those curtains to give back those seven
waking moments tatooed to the back of my eye.

My brain is my hive, my cave,
Fluttering to a irreversible wake.
I want to be anchored down with delta waves
that nurse my dreams like the bliss of comatose.

It lets me surf my caressing dreams

[I]rapteur[/I]

I like pie, mostly.

Probably?

[b]The golden tribute[/b]

[I]I passed by a stationary, solid gold statue of a brain...[/I]

"We called it 'January,'
though it was a cemetary
and writ ourselves servile and obediant."

[i]I stopped to gaze at it, and the world began to shake...[/i]

"We called it 'Right,'
made it so in our minds
and spoke like it had always been."

[i]Gravity faded, and all the king's men started floating away...[/i]

"We called it 'Begin,'
or maybe, 'Entrance,'
but wept like it was the end."

[i]I grabbed the golden tribute, trying so, so badly to stay...[/i]

"We called it 'Rapture.'
We felt It's presence.
We braced ourselves for the best..."

[i]I hid myself from rapture for it wasn't so rapturous...
even less than everyday.[/i]

sets up camp...

lolzz. :rolleyes:

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