Bring me the Truth,
Truth
Like naked bones
Of the Dead—
Now
Foul and ghastly, but
In time
Factual and harmless.
So
Toss and Slam and Shove
The Truth
To me,
Blinding and caustic
It might
Presently be,
But spared I will be
From eternal
Sorrows—
Invoked by the
Fleeting, empty smile
And the briefly comforting
Lies
You wear
And tell
So well.
I speak to Her
On occasions;
The exchange of
Recreational
Words—
It seems as if
We could babble
All day
And nothing
Would be
Of consequence.
Unaware, I would
Ramble on and on,
Not knowing
She is inwardly
All amber-colored
Kindness:
A silent,
Elusive Saint—
And that I am,
Despite
Mere, scattered desires,
Nothing
But
A mortal
Cottonmouth.
The Brooding
Premonition
Post-Deluge Bliss
“I find myself wondering about humanity. Their attitude to my sister’s gift is so strange. Why do they fear the sunless lands? It is as natural to die as it is to be born. But they fear her. Dread her. Feebly they attempt to placate her.
They do not love her.
Many thousands of years ago, I heard a song in a dream, a mortal song that celebrated her gift. I still remember it:
‘Death is before me today:
Like the recovery of a sick man,
Like going forth into a garden
After sickness.
Death is before me today:
Like the odor of myrrh,
Like sitting under a good sail
In a good wind…'”
I walk by her side, and the darkness lifts from my soul.
I walk with her, and I hear the gentle beating of mighty wings.”
—Neil Gaiman, Sandman: Vol. 1, Preludes and Nocturnes.
In a shot glass—
Vermis Meridiem now officially features photos —for fun.
“You degrade the law you serve just to protect some woman who cast you aside like offal?”
“In a second.”
“And you think that I’m the monster. Love is supposed to dignify us, exalt us. How can it be love, John, if all it does is make you lonely and corrupt?”
—conversation between John Luther and Alice Morgan.
“If you don’t confirm in Britain, it’s always a struggle, but I’m not going to change the way I am…I just don’t lick asses, basically. I just do it the way I wanna do it.”
—Mark Powell.
” For all men tragically great are made so through a certain morbidness. Be sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease. ”
—Herman Melville, Moby Dick.
Particular Moments 