Saturday, December 20, 2014

A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar

Pumping Organ Vibrations
Hearing your voice again is vile and poisonous,
like weathered, withered red vines of soured wine left to rot
out in the rain from January until March
as the tides crash to and fro in heavy doses of intoxication.
Lost my stomach for the illuminated halo crown
while aimlessly wandering the city streets and listening to cascades
of mumbled silent decadent half dreams
brought forth from the inspiration of reclusive hermits
living in the wilderness as a sacramental ritual unto the old gods.
The baker of a dozen pathological liars
leads the thieves along a broken trail with a million to one odds
of ever finding the karmic scales that tip left and right before crashing.
They will surely never find the center where the shape holds
her angles in perpetuity like perfect angel wing delight
aloft in the skyline symmetry of an occulted geometric spectrum of light
built by an architectural denizen of a coming new day and age.
Science could never figure out the radicalized epiphany of enlightenment.
Triad, quadrupled, triangulated,
circled in the cosmic synchronistic spin,
rhyming to the rhythm of daylight sunshine found within
before bursting out to thank the Heavens with a hearty laugh of madness.
Hell was not a fire, thank you very much,
yet somehow my flesh was roasted by tired demon beasts.
The jagged rock hard belligerence of ten infinite eternal feasts
celebrates the rage and wrath of decadent disease
while carrying off atoms from a stellar nebular eclipse
as stars weakly whine with whispered hollow blips,
blinking bleakly at a hollow point sky
as the horizontal plane of contact loses all grip,
slipping from the wet tongue on tongue taste
that gets missed the most when saying Grace.
He lies slowly, methodically, into his grave
as the funeral songs of Mecca are played.
Scott Thomas Outlar burst forth from the womb of primordial ooze with thoughts of Renaissance, Revolution and Revelation dancing and careening across the neuron synapses of his consciousness. He came to Earth with both a sword and a rose; with love for all that which is good, and hatred for all that which is evil. He spends most of his time trying to discern the difference between the two polar extremes. When not caught up in such spiritual fervor and rapture, he likes to chill out and write. Poetry, essays, rants, ravings, screeds - basically whatever happens to flow at any given time. Examples of his work can be seen in journals such as Dissident Voice, Ascent Aspirations, Loose Change Magazine, The Fanzine, and Oracular Tree. Scott can be reached at

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