Goodbye readers

As you may have noticed when finishing reading the last poem, it had a definite sense of ending, and thus, this book is completed. I want to thank you all, those of you who read me and encouraged me with your silence to keep going and doing a good work. I can say, without regrets that this book is ready. Hope you enjoy it, check out my other blogs for news on future works. love you all, Elijah Snow

End O'Worlds

If ever once
world ended up in water
talk to Noah
'cause I can suffer
if indeed you want me to
in this world of trumpets
and seals that can be broken
End O'Worlds
at the end of the world
I'll say to you:
"Run for your life, child
'cause God is angry
and coming for your ass"
so rape me whenever you get a chance
if you find me deserving
Oh, Lord
fist me, if this indeed be
the end of the world and thy will
'cause I swear in thy name
I shall never follow thee...

Don't you worry Elijah
I will send you off back right
I will always love you
as the child that is mine.

If and only then
I pray
incense smoke will go to my head
for I pray to meself
in this world of preachers that preach to the wind
and screamers that scream like dogs:
"Have you accepted Jesus as your only fucking savior?"
No, he fucked me up
and I didn't even spread them for shared pleasure
as I saw stars and my ass in splinters
cause Jesus fucked me hard
on all fours against my face
at the End O'Worlds
where I knew I'd go
'cause I'm a lesser God
rebellious son nonetheless
daring never ever
to even lower my face
before the Lord.

Don't you worry Elijah
I will send you off back right
I will always love you
as the child that is mine.

If it be Him
let the Word take my head
as I rise it
and spit on the Name's face.
So if you die
take the sins you love with you
close this door
with a keyblade
and leave Elijah inside
buried in the dark closet
a child crying forever.

SO OPEN UP ME EYES... (x3)

I know you can't destroy me
No end will come down on me, ah, ah, ah...
I know you can't destroy me
no end will come down on me, ah, ah, ah...

Quigong Poem

Quigong poems
come down from UFO's
as self-help cries for abandon
I am child
between wounds self-inflicted
hundreds and hundreds
of faiths elude me
as I stop caring about them
childishly,
they all get there
if I am child
and you know what I mean.

Saints write on the walls
of their cells
"I feel a deep peace
I cannot explain"
in letters of blood red
before burned at the stake.
I am Child Saint of Killers
with Quigong scapegoat poems
I am child killer of saints
come to the Earth by means
of osmosis and UFO's
with Bibles from other worlds
with resonances of other suns
power of distant moons
sailing through a proscribed map o'stars.

I am Child Prophet
with stigmas in places
that are unbearable too
I am Greater than that
against which nothing can be thought of
for I am Child God,
me, myself and my Toy Spirit
I speak in languages invented by me
and I am my own me
with Quigong poems
with words of me
come from me
and the religion of Me.

A Child's Wasteland

To T.S.Elliot

Cummer is the cruelest season

as I see my religion

falling down to my ankles

along with my Scoobie Doo skyvies.

The Lord is not present at the moment

as another Lord prepares

for the invasion of my anus

and pushes forward unceremoniusly

HURRY UP, ELIJAH

TIS GETTING LATE, MY CHILD!

My leftovers try to recover

even years after all that blood

all those cummings

a child's wasteland

untouched by Exra Pound's much editing.

HURRY UP, SWEET ELIJAH

TIS GETTING LATE, SWEET ONE!

If I cannot be Elliot

the least I can do is keep trying

like many rapings

to reach the garden

at the other side of this wasteland.

"Rain, rain

go away

sweet Elijah

wants to play."

HURRY UP, ELIJAH

TIS GETTING LATE MY CHILD!

Medicine Snowman Cure All

It was in winter snow
we were billowing
perhaps because of carrots
that refused to become
noses for our Jacks O'Frost
Elijah always said
"Wait for summer and you're dead"
Specially that dreadful summer of 96'
of broken nose and ribs
because we were gay
and Elijah was
my imaginary friend
turned lover
when I tongue-kissed my pillows.
Elijah made me promise:
"I'll always look for you
at the Wicked Park"
'cause there's no voodoo
more powerful
than longing for our own
private boo.
Mine's Elijah as we say goodbye
"Medicine Snowman cures all, but don't worry
I'll never forget you,
never, sweet Elijah".

Stain O'Light

High tones in high voices
claiming to me to fear God
antics I say
however, I do not have to see
God's face
to feel his menace and malice
but I won't fear him
Although I have a stain of light
on my dark overcoat
I absorbed from the world
'cause I have absorbed the world

I am the world
a rebellious son
bent on true good will
but dark nonetheless
for Christian silly nursery rhymes
won't ever break my yoga hold
my barriers, my block.

Meteor Pink Tangelo

"How much would you pay
to live one night as a rock star?"
you ask, my Meteor Pink Tangelo juice
like sudden cookie fortunes
in a day that cannot be more bothersome.

I thought
that maybe it is clear
we should all surrender to Snapple
and its curious, though vain facts
if this world decays towards the trivial
and my bones wither to reveal platinum ores
of magical mythril.

They advised against my typical rants
against Jehovah's Witnesses
and similar religions
but I screamed
and kept screaming
that they were not just ramblings
of a hurt young creature
but memories of wounds
like the memories of childhood
that are not
unlike
the hidden and shameful memories
of most adults.

I drink up
straight up
'cause it says "energy"
and that I need
industrial amounts
just to keep on breathing...

Wishes of Peter Pan

I had a dream
to get lost in stars and garters
hoping to never grow up
for books were brains
and dreams were to fly
in my own dreams of flight
hoping to never grow up
although sky bursts
were never the flares
in the eyes of Mother
when she punished
and she did hard
with spoons full o'food
that broke my gums
i still hope never to grow up
for anorexia threatens my adulthood
expecting not to grow too much
not even an inch taller
but wide worlds within
hoping to never grow up
hoping to never
ever
grow
up
...

Tiresome, Irksome Expectations

Batteries unload their magnets
in my light saber
forced poem of force
written with what I don't know.

German boys sit on the next table
waiting for the same thing I wait
a better language
one in which
all sorts of things
can be defined
can be described
one that doesn't sound
like the scratching of blackboards
with bare nails.

Its tiresome and irksome this search
especially in tropical wastelands
without much music of their own
the search of poetry
by notes, rhythm and tones
perhaps that language is her
poetry itself.