Bury Me Empty Handed - The Real Truth About Alexander the Great

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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. One of the most painful poems I've ever had to write in my entire life. At our end, there is nothing but the truth.

Bury Me Empty Handed - The Real Truth About Alexander the Great

*For Ramy, the Real Indiana - because I love you, go and find him.

All that remains is love.

*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 Myth.
Voracious Stories and Legends

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. You galloped a high-end horse, Ox-Head,
Pathos charging, your own glorious hopes,
Long ago achieved, your Soldier Spirits
Marching toward a battlefield still Vanishing;

Satined glass water, they appear: Ghost Equus.
Architect of your Reality, built by Greed and Glory,
Riding ruthless, invisible, under the weight of Scars.
Champion of all Empires,
King Philips's son,
god of every conquering,
Which made your 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.
Puffy eyelids from the desert sand.

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, bloody broken from the back
Field-dressed your punctured lung.

Boy Faced, Boy Voiced, bored with sex
compound tibia fracture left you limping
cracked skull, near deaf, half blind

the whole army was murdering drunks.
You went to the Loving cup of grape

for comfort - your ulcer hated wine.

In the midst of a mobile Empire
In which you moved your military
From city to city, to the stained altars
Of your immediate descendants, quickly killed
After your murder. Your own blood shed.

You wore the Lion’s head like a wild citadel
Teeth against your temples,
Claws embraced your neck.
You charged fire right in front,
Greased your ginger-blond curls
Upward and Outward, Lion-framed face.

Blade romance of the hunter
For the hunted. War Besieger,
Noble Savage, Sword Plunderer,
Dug your fingers into your own pulse
To feel the passing of your days.

Assassinated by your own infantry,
Who left nothing but your mangled body
Barely 18 years young. The victim of Envy,
Shoved into a sheepfold, towel over your face.
They left you to die there, gum up your nose.

In our personal History are rumors.
Victims of our own Myth-making lies.
As we do to all our chosen Heroes
Despite their common Ordinary lives,
And we will never ever let yours die.

There were no Babylonian Priests
Said to have packed your young mummy
In fine white linen encased in gold-sheeting -
Displayed like a rare artifact. In fact,
A god who might not decompose.
They felt the public grief that you were dead.

His Assassin's knew you'd been "beaten to pieces."
With every handle, spear and rock near by.
While you shouted "What about my own life?"
Caught off guard and twenty men to one.
You fought them 'til your body hit the ground.

He is buried under the Sphinx near
Pompey's Pillar. What remains
Of his remains, that is. My pain
Is my duty to share with you his story,
For he is forever my one lover in my Mind.

A young king who killed by the sword
Died by many who’d sworn to fight for him.
This is the truth, so help me, God.
Son of Zeus, young brave Arroro,
I’ll love you until my Heart lets go
Of your own time-mangled tale.

You’re my Hero -
Within minutes of your final exhalation,
Your soldiers rammed through your Royal Guards
Fighting for all the Gold stored in your treasury.

Ptolemy took your royal body,
His young friend's broken corpse,
While all the colors of fire ignited your core
Into the core of all colors, your Mind full-free.
Your body held on to your heart.

A Hero born out of old rumors of heroes
The Horns of Ammon are still coiled
Around your ears, listening through the ages
Angry Soul still ripping ancient pages
Hunting for a record of your own eternal name.


They left your hands out.

 


“Bury my body and don't leave any monument. Keep my hands out so the people know the one who wanted the world had nothing in hand when he died." ~~ Alexander the Great

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

 


Submitted: May 20, 2019

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