I have posted this piece,which I'm working on - and requires work, I've read it, and recorded it myself here: https://soundcloud.com/user528181418/the-confession-of-joseph-barclay

I'm sure someone could do it more justice..

It's called:

"The confession of Joseph Barclay".

BEGIN:

"Da Rosa, nada digamos agora"

The last century, has come, has gone,
come with me now, I will sing
its song.

For we dream a dream of vested youth,
that personification, is personal proof.

Thrown a touch aloof, little by little,
perceive: the fog scale grows,
thin from gossamer thread in valleys,
to cream fat thick, in the land below.

I watched and wept, as it seeped slow
deep into the sinful secrets I'd buried there,
the earth let slip up by degrees, aired
them slow, grief by grief

State by state, by Philo, by love of
knowledge led, we have been drawn to here,
and by darkling Sophos led,
to ignore that audible voice, once
contained within such screams, humanity
lost, in the cracks of consciousness
allotted in between mannered decor

Were we bequeathed the sky,
that fell in full promised downpour?
In sheets of impeccable thick staccato,
the cats hide, and the dogs crane for,

howling the rain into being with a mad dog chant,
all creatures are drenched equally,
all windows are riddled with enjoining columns,
of pure, linguistic flow, that terminate up in the sky.

Or did we, voice by voice, join the throng
the congregation, slowly die.

Phillipe, I lost you long ago,
you talked in tongues at my window.

All is puddle ankle deep, puddle leak booted cold,
scurrying, clamouring, slamming of doors,
pulling of shutters, windows restrained,
and the drains, the drains, laugh deep loud implores,

for the last laugh is spilling on man.
The tanks thunder with bulging pipes,
an elemental organ bourbon, is playing through air,

and the the dreams and prayers of the people flow forth,
in sound released, down to the slaking earth.
They know that somehow far below,
the singing wells of deep await.

And I have waited , sunk in sink holes
deep of stink that pride cannot follow,
you would deplore my sunken thought
and urge me to that life you knew

How to lead, without the sallow grief,
that guilt impedes, golden mouthed
would have talked through all smog
brought about by the imperfect remedies
of man.

And when I buried you deep, in that
smokey loam of the debauched, you
would laugh at my deceit, and say
that imperfection was not mine;

not mine alone to own, but all mankind
must follow the only truth it can,
and concede to the simple damnation
that follows all we know of man.