Deconstructing the MySpace poetry fusions

Tomorrow I am making a change in the 'Gods. No, not those, but the pieces on MySpace from my band, William F. DeVault and the Gods of Love.

Why? To make room for some of the more sophistocated sounds we've been grinding out to interlace and interface (and get in your face) with my poety.

If you haven't dropped by yet (you do NOT have to be a MySpace subscriber to visit and listen to the pieces) take the link, above, and check them out, here's a summary of what is there right now, this second, balancing on the edge of a razor as I make my decisions...

Right Set of Lips. Wow. This acoustic surreality about the questing lust and loves that fill my works of recent is charming and subtle. I was very pleased with it. But is it popular enough to survive the axe? Let me know if you think it needs to stay up!

The lyric is as follows, and the original poetic work is called "Lyric: Dance Naked in the Sky":

split second timing
turn on a dime and
find the prime number at the top
burn the walls to the ceiling
leave the world reeling
don't dare start unless you can't stop

climb the wire
light the fire
and dance naked in the sky
live like a goddess
no time to get modest
it's a crime if you just try to get by

show me a reason
to know that your teasin'
is an invitation to dance in the sky
I don't like to take chances
on third string romances
just tell me when and I'll never ask why

climb the wire
light the fire
and dance naked in the sky
come, don't you falter
take me to your altar
for the right set of lips I would die

The Faerie: Strange but Beautiful was not originally inspired by The Faerie. But she is beautiful, and strange, and there is a confused and romantic stream of consciousness within me over my attraction to her and her attentions and intentions towards me. The poem was written just before I met her, the music afterwards, in thought of her. The piano just drives home a painfully romantic, wrenching sense like the sad end of a kiss. The lyric? As follows:

strange but beautiful
the arc of the lark, a curve of unswerving passion
fashioned in jasmine and honeysuckle wreaths
to stop the nosferatu's teeth
from more than a taste
from laying waste
to what, in haste, was imagined love
and some immortal dream of joy
that mirrored what I'd seen in the sun's cleft,
or so I imagined, in hope God had left,
but it came from blood
not the ether that folds cold memory
into the shrouds of distant stars
the better to bind noble scars
strange but beautiful

strange but beautiful
I can sense your presence
but I cannot ken the vector of your approach
and like Hector, I cannot fight
what I cannot touch in the light
swinging blind against the walls
as I kick against the pricks
I would place palms to cool stone walls
and wait your arrival, eyes shut to silence
the shadows of the fires
the shadows of desires
that would blacken flesh and bone
and drag me to the precipice
to dance for the fates my amomancies
strange but beautiful

Horizon. Wow. An acid dance played out behind this prophetic miracle of a work, written before most of my core readers were born. The growl that everyone loved so much in "Joining the Machine" is back and the piece fell together nicely. It was almost effortless, a sure sign of something that has been waiting for the right moment, the right path, for a long time. To those two of you out there not familiar with the poem in question, it goes like....this:

there was a season
when I was stronger.
when days lasted longer and wind filled my sails.
there was a reason
for love's trial and error.
ghosts in the mirror were yesterdays' tales.

the winds now are memory.
hope and illusion.
pain and confusion inherit my gold.
but I, I shall live on
the crusts stained with jelly,
filling my belly with morsels and mould.

there is yet a season,
with dragons returning,
the fires yet burning shall lift to the skies.
there must be a reason
to seek the horizons.
to sail for the islands with unclouded eyes.

my sails are of iron. the sun is my shepherd.
and I am the leopard.
the lion. the beast.
alone at the tiller. I seek no more portage.
the winds of an old rage
shall yet drive me east.

Finally, from my CD "The Last Romantic Verb" we have The Gods of Love Live at Kyrienar. This thunderous blast with its driving guitar line features three of my most classic works, finally brought to the stage with music. "Monument", "Phoenix & Golem" and "TRANSCENDENCE". There are poets whose entire catalog of works doesn't measure up to those three alone. The first is an ancient work, celebrating the gift of immortality I granted Psyche when she became my lover. The second is a statement of acceptance of the brutality of unrequited love. The final, my arch and argent kiss off to the Panther. Yes, my children, the this artist's rainbow is alive and well. To those of you a bit lazy with the mouse button, I include here the three poems' words so you can deconstruct to your heart's content.

Monument

I crave a cup. a bowl. a mug of your heart's steel.
unsheathed before by mortal or god for rage or lust
of things both unneeded and forever unreal...
it is the quintessence...and the dust.

dreams do not stand before you and call the blade.
dreams do not walk or breathe or love you as I do.
and can. and will, if given just a moment's shade
from the moon of pain and the stars that lie.

my words shall be eternal. syntax monuments of you.
beneath the tread of centuries, stone shall fall.
paint peel. music rise to ears long deaf. but now...
and from this night on...you are immortal.


Phoenix & Golem

phoenix and golem.
handmade, manmade, fire and clay.
the blaze of, the haze of, self-immolation.
an act of self preservation.
brass feathers quickened in the flesh
of clay and phosphorous.
a porous purpose to usurp us
when we finally get traction
on the scrith of life.
awake, my creation.
awake and open wide the iron jowls
to howls of Eden and Armageddon.
awake. pass through the sands
like water on the beach,
reaching for the leeching pull
of buried rivers of thought not
yet assembled in coherence.
but ready for the kiln to fire
at temperatures where clay melts
and mythologies turn to ash.
awake to seize the fates
in clawed hands, iron bands
that will cling against the sting
of all the scorpions of resistance,
persistence being a virtue of the damned.


TRANSCENDENCE

the heavens are in heat tonight
for this penitent, penetrative dream.

the iron lion stands astride memory.
mantichore wings of black lace fragments
of a leather lost to the weather of whim.
to him alone is there an accounting.

countdown.

grey skies to brown toxic fumes
as the hypergolic moments when
soul and intellect touch in the ceramic chamber
of a nautilus heart.

the skies scream aside in a fictional friction
of breath drawn out to thread like taffy
pulled too long.
an obit of an orbit, undecayed
as the patina colossus pulls free his lame heel
from the grounding earth
and raises high the last romantic verb.

liftoff.

and I am gone.
gone beyond imagination.
a consecration of madness
sold in gold and honeysuckle silver.
quicksliver slowed to sublimate
into a crystalline matrix of time.

farewell.

farewell.

but it is no longer my concern.
for I burn tonight in orbit no longer.
stronger than an epiphany
made construct in the shallows of an id.


copyright William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

So check these out, lest I have to just judge for myself which to prune as I promote new material...I appreciate it.


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