finnisam

“Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.”

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  • finnisam 1w

    im drunk btw

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    Iacche! Iacche! Driven mad by frenzy
    we shout the words of Bacchus.
    Wrapping ourselves in leaves and envy,
    coiling them like the sins that wrack us,
    strip our consciences bare
    until the grapevine calls again,
    one sip, another, O there
    lies Bacchus, a lover of the game.
    We bind ourselves in lust, love twisted
    into the thorns that dig into our skin,
    drinking the thrill, wine-god assisted,
    we drink, the Bacchante revels begin.

    Iacche! Iacche! Pour the wine as a libation
    for the god who gives us gladness!
    Iacche! Iacche! Pour the cup of damnation
    and let us be lovers in madness!
    Iacche! Iacche! Another cup, where’s Bacchus?
    Iacche! Iacche! Sip more, sip more, he is with us!

    Let the incense fly up, let the wine flow down,
    our innocence lost is enough to laugh,
    Again! Again! Drink! Off with your gown,
    Look! There! The Priestess and her staff!
    Kiss me. Love me. Leave me. Drink me.
    Bacchante, O nature’s beauty, O frenzy!
    One more cup for the hornéd one,
    let the liquid fall upon the earth,
    dawn comes soon, night soon gone,
    Drink with me, Bacchante! Share my mirth!

    Iacche! Iacche! Iacche!

  • finnisam 1w

    Intoxicate me! Satiate me!
    Damn me for eternity!
    Drown me in my demons,
    Fuck your serenity!
    Let me scream, let me die,
    Let me out of here!
    I try and try and try and try,
    Why am I held dear?

    Shoot me, stab me, stone me, burn me,
    Drown me, cut me, blind me, kill me!

    O monstrous temporality
    Why won’t you pass away?
    Dread-fiend generosity
    Why do you make me stay?

    Inebriated with the Bacchic chants resounding,
    Abandoned by the grapevine, a solitary foundling
    Adopted by meeken hands, cradled with the lambs,
    Trapped in lawless commands that save and damn.
    Sinking, sinking, sinking with O beautiful Babylon,
    I weep that I did hate thee, I weep that thou art gone!

  • finnisam 1w

    Damn your words, damn your thrones,
    damn your unconsecrated bones.
    Let your falseness show through your skin,
    this wretched world shall see your sin.
    Before long you shall be torn to shreds,
    your miseries laid bare, ash on your head,
    robed in sackcloth, cradling the dead,
    wailing and weeping, yea, many tears shed.
    Your city of stone and steel and blood
    shall be thrown down into the mud,
    trodden underfoot like a precious pearl,
    the rewards of those who love this world.
    Passing away, passing away, all of it passes,
    they scream for love, they scream for hate,

    O delicate masses!

    How can we comfort ye, comfort ye the people?
    You shout, you shout, tear down this steeple!
    Let our lives be laid bare as yours will be,
    Let our eyes be blinded, unfit to see.
    Drown in the flood and flame of iniquity,
    Babylon the Great is fallen into the sea.

  • finnisam 1w

    Scream, scream, scream O wretched Mariner,
    slaked and thirsty, dying and not dead.
    Entombed soon shall you be in a barrow bare,
    laid to torment, with stone for your bed.
    Broken bones, body racked with wounds
    of conscience, for that sad Albatross,
    a stain ne’er rubbed out despite the moons
    passing and passing, monstrous loss.

  • finnisam 1w

    I tore the words away from their source
    and let them rot inside my mind,
    from their context, semblance, divorced
    and forced, O forced now to find
    am I new words for my ideas
    that feed not upon my fears,
    that speak to others and not to me,
    that have good eyes but not to see,
    that drift and change and love and hate,
    that appetites they know how to sate.
    Words withering so sadly away,
    not content to leave, nor to stay,
    wretched inspiration gone and gone again,
    none but the poet can know this pain,
    none but the king can rule a people,
    none but the priest can mount a steeple,
    none but the painter can transform canvas,
    none but the grieving can understand loss,
    none but the crucified can die for love,
    none but the Nazarene comes from above.

  • finnisam 1w

    I said: This is a slowly dying rose.
    I said: It will smell of rot and decay;
    We will watch its wilting with the day,
    We will watch it fall just as it arose.
    I said: All on Earth goes the way this goes,
    All living things perish with time’s passing,
    A flower springs up, and just when massing
    In winter, the petals fall, wrapped in death throes.
    So walking in a garden of misery
    I came upon a snake slithering,
    Coiled around the rose wilting,
    The author of death, our history.

    I answered: I will take not the fruit from the tree,
    You will not take my love, nor my liberty.

  • finnisam 1w

    A candlestick beside my bed
    where I do rest and lay my head,
    the wick burns away, wax flows down,
    sleep covers my eyes like a threadbare gown.

    Do I rest or are these dreams waking?
    Am I myself or is the world now taking
    the remnants of truth that dwelt within
    my soul, my heart, before I did begin.

    An all fair love appears before me
    crowned in thorn and bleeding red,
    a tide of guilt comes like the sea,
    before I know it, to death am I wed.

    Dark assaults me, takes my sight,
    clothes it in the robes of the night,
    empties soul of what little it had,
    the flickering light, nay, I am mad.

    Lost to the emptiness, the sorrow
    eats away my almost tomorrows,
    they are no longer, nor exist I,
    I lived, but lived not, content to die.

  • finnisam 2w

    Dionysus watched on as the Maenads tore
    His rival worshipper asunder.
    Soaked in wine and blood the pelt he wore,
    But then heard he the thunder.

  • finnisam 2w

    Rain-lapped desperate god shrinking from the light / loving loving loving loving —where goeth the endless night? / Do not break the rod of iron that ruleth over thee / a wand of wood — a madman’s sceptre glistening as it sinketh into the sea / drug the lovers — damn the poets / let them drown alone / we know we know we know we do not know it / thriving, threshing, drowning, dying on a thoughtless throne.

  • finnisam 3w

    Inspired by Keats’ “Hymn to Apollo”

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    Hymn to Dionysus

    God of the silver wine,
    God of the sacred pleasure,
    God of the blessed vine,
    God of the liquid treasure.
    O cup-filled Orgiast
    Of inebriating desire,
    Where — Where dwelleth thy lustful fire,
    When like a lowly mortal I sipped thy cup,
    Thy growth, thy fruit
    That leaves mortals mute,
    Was I worthy to drink — too low, too beastly to look up?
    O Orphic Dionysus!

    The Galilean rasp’d and rasp’d,
    The Galilean groan’d and groan’d;
    The Lamb’s bleeding wounds
    For Love became shining — the sound
    Of dying deity
    Drifted quietly,
    Wanting the lost to be found.
    O why didst thou give me thy cup running over,
    Why laugh at the suffering servant
    and his doleful lament?
    Why was I not dead and risen with this poor Lover?
    O Orphic Dionysus!

    The stars stretched across the sky
    Watching the Dionysian procession;
    The blood and wine spilt on the Earth
    For the same persisting transgression.
    The Earth shook for terror
    At a Dionysian error,
    When, who — who did dare
    To drink the cup and wear the thorny crown upon the Galilean’s brow?
    None, but Dionysus laughing loudly
    And smiling swift and proudly,
    The grapevine god wears a wine-soaked pelt now!
    O Orphic Dionysus!

    ©finnisam