Saturday, March 31, 2012

Excerpt from "The Light Horse" by J.D. Brayton

The invocation of The Priest of Kalika in the Jeshoreshwari Kali Temple:
To Fandoor he gave the silver incrusted begging bowl made from the skull of a Kapalika and said:

As with the dawn of creation it begins with the Mother. Always and Forever; within the womb and the universe within. Always before the first cry of vagitus until the last prayer, last gasp, final pose of man in his end. We move forward. We lead the goat, the horse, the mare, the water-bearers through another impossible jungle, slashing at vines resembling confusion and stasis of soul. We breathe the air of the Mother, we seek the comfort of the Mother, we are chastened by Her very chatoyant gaze, her eyes burn or warm- cauterize or comfort us, watch us in our feeble yearnings and ridiculous wants. Struggle man. Struggle woman. Succeed unto death and rebirth and your futile gift for worms and crows. Feed the hungry; have you not hungered and feasted on beasts? Have you not taken sustenance in fear and greed and suffering? Give your flesh gladly. Lift up your palms to the moon, walk through the fire of Agni- not even the God of Fire can subsist without her blessing.
Mankind. Show gratitude in fever. Show gratitude in motion. Show gratitude with the gift of birth of your offspring.Show pleasure in the cry of the shokun as it pecks out your eyes.
Nothing is worth clinging to. Your purpose was ordained an eon before you were conceived. Your very conception is as rude and ordinary as the silent death of ants beneath the feet of God.
This in itself is cause for laughter.
Are not the very teeth is your empty skull frozen this way forever?
Is not this certainty a comfort?

Sunday, March 25, 2012


by J.D. Brayton for MWB

to record the image of catastrophe
to celebrate the moment when
equilibrium is shattered
and creativity is born
when the earth gives up her chains
rocking wholly constant
in a mud-hut bastard-child’s eye
all that is dreamt ,all that are despised
the cracked cocoon here
the possum scitters in the light
of a wild dog moon
seven subconscious plagues and
of nil
the anger of a rock-chained eyeless semi-God
breaking the wind-ed sigh
terror and others of horror’s cousins
visit in shards of wily sunlight
the opposites brought home in a
slow burn
for this turning of a shrieking ball of dirt
now send MASSIVE shiver
collect up the mankind spine
Prometheus can stand it no longer that
crow’s laughter.
Loin rumbling churning ballast folly
Laugh- it’s the sound of one
Hand clapping
The calm, and after
Of one
Blade of grass
Prostrate in the aftershock of a sunspot
Solar wind envy

So sublime is