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•   A BIANNUAL LITERARY MAGAZINE BROUGHT TO YOU BY DESI WRITERS' LOUNGE   •

Volume 11


Prequel - January 2013


Verse

William D. Jackson III

Written by
William D. Jackson III

I was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. I've given readings at events around Los Angeles County at places like The Goethe Institut, Chung King Rd in Chinatown, and Lawrence Asher Gallery. As of now I have been published online and been accepted for an anthology. I enjoy cold sake and long walks on the fire.

        
      
       
            
              

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There’s fire in your eyes,
burning like an ancient forest.
The dead lie around you,
comrades in secrets, the mysteries –
you will turn them to mountains,
streams.
There’s fire in your eyes,
burning like night-raid bombed out cities.
Inhale darkness.
Exhale extremity,
iron justice,
blood.
The clouds are afraid of you.
The stars beckon your presence,
as if to return an audience.
The muscles of your jaws move as if
to speak and eyes swerve from an escape,
turning, listen for the word, cautious,
holding their breath you let silence.
They run.
There’s fire in your eyes burning up
everything you see, burning me.
Books and pages go up in smoke.
Rivers run blindly down snowy horizons.
Creatures of the ocean’s deepest deep swear allegiance
and are promised after life regions, regions of sheer obedience.
Bowing in stone crushing blackness they take leave.
There’s fire.
Like a gothic statue she lies before you,
head down arm out hand up pleading,
she represents anything, everything,
mercy, begging for mercy.
None given.
The Recorder of History sees your face in
a dream and waking up in a sweat makes for
the nearest cliff and leaps.
I can’t write anymore and decompose and turn to bone.
You’ve borne witness to your own creation.
Your other self, you, waits for you at the foot of the dark hills.
There. Burning.
Your eyes blink and turn to the left.

 

 

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