Bury Me Empty Handed

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Odd recall of something my Soul probably sketched out from visiting his Akashic Record. And yeah, they are allowed to.

Submitted: May 19, 2019

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Submitted: May 19, 2019

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Bury Me Empty Handed 

 

*a verbis ad verbera

 

By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright 1-28-2019

 

 

Even my Lyrics are a kind of violence.

A piton-tongued poet, scaling a limitless wall toward

The Crown of my Mind. My Warrior Soul

Owns all the golden Treasures, my endless tales.

Their Dark Force weapons were useless, useless.

 

Immortal glory feeds itself

Via the umbilicus from my body 

Of Restrained death. Legends bloom and expand

Amid my withering destruction.

Sword in my pen, I battle on.

 

Achilles, Alexander, Athena,

Ancient Heroes and Heroines

Paid for eternal recognition

With their very lives, their living breath

Captured and swallowed by their Legend.

Voracious Stories and Myths

 

Grown corpulent, warped and resplendent, 

Eating our achievements

Aspirating our genius,

Gargling our ambitions,

And choking up our bones

Into ideograms of Fame.

 

We sacrifice our heartbeat

To an Irrational Eternal Compiler

Listing our given Mortal names

On a book with unbound pages.

What we have left to be buried in the earth

Was a tool, an image, ceremonial armor.

 

Like the Kells who buried old hatches and potsherds,

Providing dignified burials to every abandoned

Object.  My King galloped a high-end horse, Ox-Head,

Pathos charging, his own glorious hopes,

Long ago achieved, his Soldier Spirits

Marching toward a battlefield still Vanishing;

 

Satined glass water, they appear: Ghost Equus.

Architect of his Reality, built by Greed and Glory,

Riding ruthless, invisible, under the weight of Scars.

Champion of all Empires,

Zeus-Ammon's son, god of every conquering,

Which made his Incarnation,

The Possessor of Man’s Might.

 

< not his touch, but the remembrance of his touch. >

 

rough, dry, bruised, clutching.

half-healed wounds

he tasted like salt

Spit-wet desert lips.

 

Once kissed sideways

Breath like herbs

back-slapped a lot

bent body, cracked wrestler.

 

I knew your veiny muscle -

 

- I held those calloused hands

when he died. red-gold beard unshaved

hair swept back and wet.

 

That hellish Babylonian summer.

 

< not his body, but the remembrance of his body >

 

born wry-necked, hypogonadism, tilted smile

sunburned, roaming lion muscles, 

a Star Chamber Form, scar-starred

hero pierced, crunch, shatter, split. 

Ichor! they cried. Blood, you said.

chest cicatrix, where they Yanked

the arrow, front to back

Field-dressed his punctured lung.

 

Boy Faced, Boy Voiced, bored with sex

compound tibia fracture left him limping

cracked skull, near deaf, half blind

 

the whole army was murdering drunks.

he went to the Loving cup of wine

 

for comfort - his ulcer hated him.

 

In the midst of a mobile Empire

In which he moved his military

From cities to countries, to the stained altars

Of his immediate descendants, quickly killed

After his murder. His own blood shed.

 

He wore the Lion’s head like a wild citadel

Teeth against his temples,

Claws embrace his neck.

He charged fire right in front,

Greased his ginger-blond curls

Upward and Outward, Lion-framed face.

 

Blade romance of the hunter

For the hunted. War Besieger,

Noble Savage, Sword Plunderer,

Dug his fingers into his own pulse

To feel the passing of his days.

 

The Babylonian Priests packed his young mummy

In fine white linen encased in gold-sheeting -

Displayed like a rare artifact. In fact,

A god who might not decompose.

They weren’t even sure he was dead.

 

Lord of All Asia, King of the World,

Gasped his last instructions on his army cot.

Within minutes of his final exhalation, 

His soldiers rammed through his Royal Guards

Fighting for all the Gold stored in his treasury.

 

Ptolemy stole his royal body, Earth Master's corpse,

Diverted to Egypt, the canopic jars shook

With Alexander’s lungs, intestines, stomach, liver.

While all the colors of fire ignited his core

Into the core of all colors, his Mind full-free.

 

His body held onto his heart.

 

A Hero born out of old rumors of heroes

The Horns of Ammon are still coiled

Around his ears, listening through the ages

Angry god still ripping ancient pages

Hunting for a record of his own eternal name.

 

 

They left his hands out.

 

 

"Bury my body and don't leave any monument. Keep my hands out so the people know

the one who won the world had nothing in hand when he died." ~~ Alexander the Great

 

"A tomb suffices him for whom the wold world was not enough."

 

 


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