• a.p. duvall

Twas 14th century China, and I was perched on my village's highest defense wall, looking out into the heavens on this one particular summer evening, when it happened to me. I was concentrating a particular beautiful constellation and in the exact instant before I blinked an incredibly golden and azure colored dragonfly, or maybe shooting star burned across the sky, then I blinked.

When my eyes opened, there was nothing beautiful in the sky.

Each star black. Only the entirety of the moon's face remained, flooding the night with it's radiant purity. I felt levitated within my own body, and I felt as if I were both being stretched by the Emperor's horses, and also shrinking to an incredibly tiny height of that of a sugar ant! My ancestors called my name and then they began to shout all my outstanding trespasses against the golden rules of the Universe and I began to curse them, curse them and their golden rules, and that it was only I who could possibly find the truth to the Way.

No, I was not their pawn, I was Freedom incarnate, and prepared to wreak havoc, as if I were all of the caged Titans freed to rape and plunder Zeus' fields and those under his protection and house. It would be them who would be standing at Judgment being branded by the law of justice as sheep, and their throats will be ripped from them, making them useless, allowing them only to speak, "Bah-bah Bah-bah" for all eternity.

And then all of that. All that love for freedom and emancipation and the declaration of liberation and stimulation, was gone. With the wind, with the jazz, and for the love of all the things that I ever gave a damn about. Great apathy struck and took root, and I felt deep in my bones that the World, and the Way, and the Universe, was all a useless lie.

A dead weight around our necks as we swim out further and further into the seas of truth and oceans of love and liberty. There was no infinite conscious being watching, or guiding, or creating, or destroying.

There was only coincidence, and luck. And once that sunk in, it took, and never left.

  • a.p. duvall

I walk alone every road I turn down

Memories to burn never make a sound

Your cigarette blowing in the breeze

Memories to keep have left silently

The losing cause found the reflection

The thief escapes without exception

It’s not a choice that I ever turned down

This lovely home burns to the ground

Take it all in stride this deathless ride

Take a photograph

Place it on my tab

Curl your hair and fix your stare

Alert all your friends

It never ends

The window breaks the sun shines black

Conscious weight is all that you lack

Take it slow clutch the reaching hand

Bear witness to the bleeding land

I walk alone every scarred piece of road

The pearls shine like stains on a soul

Collect your calls redirect ones coming in The chosen one is busy shooting heroin

  • a.p. duvall

Dreams die in the morning

Dreams die in the fog

Dreams die in daylight

Dreams die every night

Dreams die in your sheets

Dreams die up on a wall

Dreams die across the street

Dreams die on the screen

Word: everythangandthenothang n.

The feeling one gets when their

knees are weak

and lover’s wet lips

lock onto necks

when the second splits

the desire of two rips

and all will, and resistance

fall like the masks

they truly are.

V. -- 1)

To see the painting’s dream

crystallize the extreme

metaphor for the snakes of

St. Patrick’s lore that acronymized

every word in the surefooted

poet’s unpublished suicide

shopping list -

V. --2)

To breathe Julius Caesar’s last breath

- which is possible if one

knows which way the

looter’s light will throw its rays,

to the Heavens or to

London fog, York,

amongst the graves -

© 2020 by a.p. duvall.
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