There are many things I’ve let you believe
And I’ve let you believe the horror is near
I see you and gently, I lightly… deceive
By omission my mission is clear

The horror is not close, not looming, but terrible and free
To haunt my loved ones
And hated ones
An empty threat affecting nobody
To walk the halls of who used to be… me

You think I feel too much
That I am giving and garish and godless and free
Some of my friends even wish they could be like me
But those who truly know me have manufactured
Ways to tolerate my…

for long I’ve longed to be beheld
behold me in my wild and flowery sheen
as threads of flower wrap around you
I feel seen

for long I’ve longed to hold
but for being held I really have a thirst
to hold another as I wish
you’d really want to hold me
first

I want to touch and feel the touch of human skin
as crumbly, rancid I have turned within
soft, humanely, petals upon petals touch
except in this dream
I don’t have to ask for it so much

written on 2020–10–31

I see the holy war in you
I see the Holy Wars in me

I’m touched, myself a necrotising saint
I could listen to some Lorde, Pen Scott or
just some fucking Britney

instead I listen, now, to you
a lion saint
and envy you

I’d wish I sang like you
I’d wish you wrote like me

or normally I’d envy you
how you turn your gushing, blackened wounds
into savagely powerful poetry
into soul-destroyingly
real music

except… I do as well
I am not just suffering, but… also really good at it you see
my friends are touched
my stories raw, my…

they say the cruel must necessarily be hurt
that cruelty sources from the child by pain confused

they say there is no evil, only pain
abusers abusing for they are, themselves, abused

they say do not strike back, my child
they say rise above their level, be kind, stay true

they say that god shall punish them
they say they suffer already, far more than you

they say the monsters suffer many pains
already punished by what runs
through their crippled, blackened veins

they say that and I say “Go to hell”
I say fuck all of that poetic shit
I say…

let me tell you the story
of the disease of philosophy
from the moment its virus first hatched
to the present moment
and your thousand anxious predictions
your holograms of “what could be”
and “what if it was”
and “what if not”

the first human was not a man, of course
it might have been a woman
or not

either way, her name was Saint Katharine
or High Katharijn, as the civilised would say
but you’ve barely got your mind so let’s keep it simple

so did she, for long she only frollicked
and lived on apples from the ground
and was…

Snarling, cross-eyed revenant, she claws at you
Though prison bars of earthen substance
that you told it has made itself
a spiritual disaster that made your heart beat faster
your first experiment, in a dimension left behind by god

she built her gardens to the sky, a lush arcane, a writhing vine
blocky babylon towers of grace
vined and stroked with neon glow
a giant of marble, ivy, silicon
a giant ivory android
a mute creation, as seething as unfeeling

with faceless rage, the titanic, Hollow One throws its fist
the Ghost of Gardens has been heaven-kissed
and though thine heavens perch…

fleecy harky yucking fiberglass
strands across the beautiful orb
keeps me from touching it
keeps you from touching it
keeps me from seeing what you see

platinum, gold or maybe just
really nice bronze
the heaviest orb, a mind of its own
goes as it pleases, deeply admired by all
it shines their way forward
it keeps them warm
it mirrors them, it lets them see
what the orb sees
as far more beautiful

as who is not more beautiful
in a mirror of bronzen gold?

and yet beautiful as they felt around the orb,
the vandals, thieves
chipped and scratched at…

Aly Gardens

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