Andrew Thickett - The Bourgeois Gods are Dead

We must un-mourn ourselves;
See life as a death-dance beneath the stars,
Where only rain-fall can admonish the de-tumescence
of our un-tombed lands.
Betwixt the darkness of half-night
and half-lit embers;
We wear lightning as our spines,
To traverse beneath the stillness
Of our still sibilant thoughts.
We move through the grass, blade-by-blade,
Seeking to catch sight of the hidden whispers
Inside the skulls of motion-less men.
Finding only synapse-upon-synapse,
We weep to end our weeping;
Hoping to find a door ajar,
To what is not there.
What is not there
Is not-there only in the recognition of our absence.
Recognised, the absence is dissolved.
Moving through the grass,
Both the agon and the agonal
Observe our desire to re-desire,
The un-explored atoms of our somnambulistic attire.
Bourgeois Gods have spent
their recesses,
Assessing their excesses,
As the mass expresses,
The animal woes of ordered chaos.
The death throes of a death-less stare:
Born to nothing, from nothing:
Their dusky hieroglyphs
Delineate their despair.
Un-born,
their bodies throw away everything except the body.
Yet, body-less and trembling,
The impartial yore binds the skull to the impartial question.
Whilst questing,
They are requesting, their apricity once more.
The Last Men
are suppressing,
The First
who are twice-born.
Creating un-civilisation
amongst the de-civilised hordes.
Finding action is the answer
To the quiescent concatenations
of the sleeping Gods.
Awakening,
We recite:
"Only our exile offers us the chance to journey home,
Blade-by-blade,
Through the grass --
To our waking Gods."