TWELVE
Peter Lyssiotis
M A S T ER T H I E F
The mysteries are always there in front of you.
Here is the marketplace where people bid for the dreams of their childhood.
Is this the shape of grace? I ask the shadow across from me at the table.
Two white wings impaled on a thorn.
The fire has lost its way.
I hear that; then dream that.
Tell me how these stones dreamt of being clouds.
A raven’s feather falls into the river: I catch the fragrance of another world.
And in the morning, as is its habit, the terracotta jar fills with morning sun.
And in the morning, as is its habit, the terracotta jar once again fills with morning sun.
Distance becomes an empty thing.
The life that matters is not the one I’m good at.
They hand you your story-and like it or not you end up believing it-and soon becomes your life.
In the end we learn to love that which is always passing.
Everything I made; everything I ruined..
Tonight the twelve who have been hunted for so long, huddle with the partisans around the fire in our kitchen.
Tonight the twelve who have been hunted for so long, huddle with the partisans around the fire in our kitchen.
My hand reaches into the ashes: what does it expect to find there Beauty?
And among the shards: Iscariot’s red tear.
A blood stained boot guards a circle of scorched earth.
In this desert storm angels and serpents share the same face.
Twisted metal; 2,000 kilometre an hour winds; warped atoms; the grovelling dead:. Ah! The fire storm of God’s anger.
Twisted metal; 2,000 kilometere an hour winds; warped atoms; the grovelling dead. Ah! The fire storm of God’s anger.
The sound of justice is terrifying, ancient and simple.
Around the crow’s eye-the madness of empires.
(The bullet wins every time.)
The bullet wins.
Which one of us will be bled to death tonight?
All I ever dream of is departures.
There is so much dying does it matter which dying is death?
Only this animal remains: working, eating, sleeping-afraid of being beaten, yearning for freedom-afraid of love.
Only this animal remains: working, eating, sleeping-afraid of being beaten, yearning for freedom-afraid of love.
All of us know that flesh will be consumed tonight.
Let me go of me, I’ve done all I was made for.
A contaminated wind snaps at our heels like a rabid dog.
I had such plans.
We are taught to love our lives and to believe they’re the ones we’ve chosen.
So we believe until our lives wear out.
I was young, the city wasn’t.
There’s a crack in our bedroom mirror.
You have the heard the footsteps of assassins-so you know the sound of the human heart being dragged away.
You have heard the footsteps of assassins-so you know the sound of the human heart being dragged away.
Where is the candlelight to reassure us?
Another door is nailed shut.
Instead of God or the word-the splendour of black.
God pours into the world through our exit wounds.
And there is always that other world where like the poet said: the tears we’ve caused will drown us.
We cross the border and walk into a country without sky.
They come at night when you’re asleep and your desires exposed.
Who’s left to call us home?
Is it only with our last breath we that we come tothe life that was intended for us?
…and still I’m amazed when the world returns in the morning-wet and beautiful and empty.
Forgotten things forget themselves.
I make a deep hole of myself and wait to trap my God alive!
The wooden table, the olives, the warm bread, the saint snoring by the window, the glass of wine: do they have a purpose?
The wooden table, the olives, the warm bread, the saint snoring by the window, the glass of wine: do they have a purpose?
This God, these 12, this me- we’re all unfinished.
The sky ends in blue silence.
When will you open your eyes to the blood on your daily bread?
There are so many vanishings on the way does it matter which one of them is death?
Only the wolf has lived long enough to understand the rapture of the twelve
Twisted metal; 2,000 kms an hr winds, warped atoms; the grovelling dead.
Ah! The fire storm of God’s anger.
Instead of God or The Word-the splendour of black.
Two black wings impaled on a dry thorn.
Is it only with our last breath that we come to the life which was intended for us?
(The bullet wins every time.)
The bullet wins.
And among the shards: Iscariot’s red tear.
When will you open your eyes to the blood on your daily bread?
Not a sound. Not a bird. Not a footfall. Not a breath.
A solitary bud of red pain.
The wooden table, the olives, the warm bread, the saint snoring by the window, the glass of wine: do they have a purpose?
Only the wolf has lived long enough to understand the rapture of the twelve
Twisted metal; 2,000 kms an hr winds, warped atoms; the grovelling dead.
Ah! The fire storm of God’s anger.
Instead of God or The Word-the splendour of black.
Two black wings impaled on a dry thorn.
