Brian Celio

The air winding through the weeds
Is warm enough to bloom new seeds,
Sowing shelter for the shroud,
So screams, when screamed, are never loud.

Hand-in-hand I stand with Jen
On a path carved by years of sin.
She kisses my neck then tilts her head
To look at the fog making a long soft bed

Above the lake, under the potent moon.
I tell her this shroud has a tune
That makes limbs tremble til they stop,
For the water always needs another drop.

She turns to me with a quizzical stare,
Brushes her hands through my hair.
With moon-doused eyes she asks
If I believe the night is just a mask

For what can’t be seen by the sun
When all is said and done.
I tell her she’s precious and wise,
That the night is surely a disguise

For places too beautiful for words,
Too shrouded to welcome morning birds,
Here, only the unknown can remain
If the tune is to keep a quiet man sane.

She says that secrets can’t be kept,
That all tracks show where we stepped.
I turn around to see no tracks on the path,
Then ask if she heard the Shroud Bath.

She answers no and starts to tremble.
I smile without eyes and feel her nimble
Hand part from mine as she steps back.
I grab her body before she falls slack.

I ease her down to the mossy ground
And ask her to whisper what loud sound
Awakes the unconscious from a dream.
She whispers, with tears, “I suppose a scream.”

I wrap my hands around her throat,
As the bed of fog stays afloat.
I squeeze tighter then give her a kiss.
Her moon-doused eyes I will miss.

But the air winding through the weeds
Is warm enough to bloom new seeds,
So I tuck Jen into the sinking wraith,
A secret kept silent by her blind faith.

Brian Celio, © 2009

But why?!
What are you trying to heal?
What do you need to deal with?
What are you trying to feel?
What, exactly, isn’t “real”?
Please tell us:
Are you really trying to kill yourself?

Or are you just trying to wear out your words?
Do you think suicide is funny?
My friend committed suicide.
This is bringing up bad memories.

Well, I’m your worst enemy.
Just look at me:
I’m dirty. I’m ugly. I’m fucked up.
I have no goals left to complete.
I’m only replete with bad luck.
I’m stuck. But I don’t want out.
The world out there is craaaaazy.
It has too many mouths,
But not one set of ears.
All these years I’ve been screaming
And dreaming and scheming.
All these fears I’ve been defeating.
Despite where I lie,
I never thought about retreating.
Please tell me:
Would you really give up everything for your dreams?

Or are you just trying to wear out your life til you’re dead?
Do you think slow suicide is funny?
Everyone I knew committed slow suicide.
This is bringing up bad memories.

Overstand, you’re my worst enemy.
Just look at yourself:
You’re clean. You’re lean. You’re sober.
You have superficial goals to complete.
You’re replete with holes.
There’s rust on all your souls.
They can’t break out.
I have plenty of oil,
But I’m not about to spoil
The Devil’s dreams.
This is not what it seems.
A stupid fuckin’ rhyming game
That on the surface gleams,
While underneath
Lie the wretched truths of Hell?
Umm, I better rhyme this line well,
Or else someone might get disturbed.
Oh well, fuck it and fuck you.
Whatever you say bounces off me
And sticks like glued pills to my gut.
Yo, mutterfutters:
It keeps me afloat—
In a three-foot gutter!
In the margin of this note
I drew a heart
And colored it in black—
Just to laugh.
Nothing else.
Stop for a moment and just laugh.
Hahahahaha!
Okay! Now all the Mexicans:
Jajajajaja!
Okay! My turn:
Hmhmhmhmhm!

Hey, you ever get so fucked up
That you just wanna be left alone,
In that moment—
Spinning around and around—
Flipped upside-down—
Enjoying something weird
Like a video game
Or the urge to drink a milkshake?

People who have known me for a while
Keep asking what happened
To all the phenomenal philosophies I used to write,
All the beautiful love poems spun so tight.
I keep telling them they’re wherever they were before.
How the fuck else am I supposed to answer that question?!
Don’t you see: I’m just trying to break free.
I don’t want my words to rhyme.
I don’t want to make any points.
I don’t want high acclaim.
I don’t want Hollywood fame.
I don’t want money for a new car.
I don’t want to meet you at the bar.
I don’t want anything new.
I honestly just want back a time in my life,
About ten years ago,
Before I started writing “for the public.”
See, I had this chick,
A real-life angel,
Who pulled me up from my first gutter,
Told me I had a mind like no other,
Let me chew on her hair
Just so I would never suffer.
Mmm…I still pine for those days.
So why do I “have to” live for today?
Or for tomorrow?
Why can’t I be where I already was—
Not for you or her but just because?
What really gets me is everyone who tries
To steer me away from it.
Yeah, I know: it’s just a memory.
But it’s all I got—basically all I’ve ever had.
It keeps me warm and hopeful,
Even if I’m dying.
I swear underneath this there’s
Something sacred and eternal—
Prying into the depths of my soul:
SO FUCK NO! I’LL NEVER LET GO!
But like I said, I can’t anyway:
It’s forever secured in a moment I can’t relive,
That is, in the physical.
But I’ll call out her name every day
For the rest of my life.
I’ve been doing it in too many ways to name.
But they all spell out the same thing:
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _, _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _!!!

Look at this shit: my words really are crumbling—
To the point where I’m left with b_a_k_.
But isn’t there some beauty in that?
Some honor and dignity?
Knowing that I’m self-destructing,
That I’m giving up everything
For a memory?
It’s such a beautiful memory too.
I wish I could walk everybody back with me,
Sit down, and watch us be in love.

(You know what’s funny?
I write this shit so fucked up,
So fuckin’ displaced,
That in the morning I have to decipher it—
Put the words above into a coherent form.
It’s like translating two languages.
There’s so much lost in the interpretation.
What I felt when I first wrote this
Was so powerful and heart-wrenching.
Now it feels so overdone and fake.
It’s not even worth reading.
Thank God life is so fleeting.
I hate poetry so much,
But I keep writing because
These words look like her body to me.
When I read them aloud, it sounds like
I’m screaming her name,
And sooner or later she’ll hear it.)

No, no, no, I’m not broken-hearted!
Just keep your lay philosophies on Love
To yourself.
Stop—I am NOT an intellectual elitist,
But by the same token,
You are NOT a miracle worker.
For real, I don’t need help—
Unless you can destroy her marriage
And bring her back to me.
Oh, that’s just the pills talking.
They’re starting to kick in,
So I’m about to punch out.

Maybe one day you’ll have the urge
To give up everything you’ve found
For something you’ve lost.
But I seriously doubt you’ll have the guts
To actually do it.

Homeless junkie man said,
Man, if I had a million dollars
I would buy your mind.
But if I had strong hands
I would steal your heart.

Makes an artist admit:
Who gives a fuck about art…

Brian Celio, © 2009

Brian Celio, © 2009

I was born a citizen of the stag nation. I’m male but incomplete. My masculinity is affected but not hopeless, nor pointless. Unaccompanied, I’ve been searching for a feminine lining to adorn my attire of totality and sublimity. I’ve learned that eclectic melodies can generate electricity, which, in effect, reveal notes hidden by the same old song. For years, I’ve been listening to the frequency on which society rambles and oscillates between two short lengths: one barely rising above positive, the other barely below negative. Therein, revolution speaks in a stutter; repetition so fluently. It’s always been this way. Now I seek to destroy it, but without the claws of nihilism. I can already feel the prenatal sensations within my hands: freely pealing back humanity layer by layer til our sensibilities ring out in cadence. From here, we compose. Guided by none, tuned by all. The world is our apex. And if we have to work our way through shards and ashes, so be it. Foundations need not be stable, only reachable. All things must be destroyed. All things must be considered. A new noise must be heard.

Composed on the 30^th day of January 2008

Inspired by The Shape of Punk to Come

Throughout my life, anger and bitterness clung to my nerves

Like maggots to open meat,

Instilled in me by history and devolution,

Exacerbated by experience and circumstance.

Despite the innate wisdom in my heart

Woven from the bright fabric of God,

I would flick and shake but couldn’t shed

The darkness which stunts the sublimation of man.

Although I knew of love, I wasn’t always the sign of love.

Although I knew of life, I never lived a moment of it.

In truth, I was just as entrapped as the rest.

But while they swayed in the illusion of happiness,

I sunk into a reality of despair.

Throughout my life, I fought alongside artists—

Writers, painters, musicians, rebels with and without causes—

Who also spoke of revival and revolution and freedom and love.

In the end, I was the only true testament to our collage of art.

But as I lived it—(and I did for the sake of the testament alone)—

I faced more defeat than glory,

Because, deep-down, I expected things that I shouldn’t have.

I failed to assume, in whole, the image of Christ.

If I had, the beauty of the world would have been mine.

Instead, I wedded wisps that left me starving til my final breath.

Beneath my favorite tree I lay when the Angel of Death came for me.

He lifted me up and cradled me into his soft humming chest.

Then, without words or journey, I found myself alone in the presence of God.

Artlessly, I genuflected and cried—

Cried in incandescence to be healed of all the pain and despair in my heart.

As God wiped away my tears,

Luminescence washed over me,

Dissipating my dew of fragmented memoirs.

Blessed in the sea of infinite clarity,

I stood even with the surface of the Kingdom.

There, God said that I shall never cry

Or feel the heat of misery again;

From light tears to heavy heat, I bade final riddance.

Then from the hands of God I imbibed

The justice once withheld by detractors of the truth.

As I quenched my final earthly thirst,

I understood that all along I had been as true as humanly possible,

But it was only a flicker of human comprehension,

For I transcended into colors, the sweetest colors,

To feel in divine feelings,

My soul become whole and pure in the light of God by the love of God,

And Eternity washed away everything else.

Composed between 2nd of October and 16th of November 2008