El-Branden Brazil

Photographer, Writer & Mystic Traveller

Archive for ‘August, 2014’

The Dead Man’s Mass

The light of Twilight opened:
Bruised in orange inclination
Below a dark blue cascade
Of starlit elevation.
He lay down to ponder
Upon the complex folly of descent
And all the foolish hooded lies
That embraced all human incident.
His breast released a fearful sigh –
Exasperating all clear smoke
From deep within his ancient lungs
And pushed out from hidden throat.
And his eyes became wide open –
Gasping at the visual splendour
In every moment passing on,
As life evaporated yonder.
His memories caught in bloodied fever
And seeping from every pore;
He felt ecstatic recollection
For what had been before.
And no where had this Dead Man seen,
The golden sunrise of the Night –
Transcending high in earnest dream
And drowning him in Holy rite.
And vanished by forsaken moment,
Reality’s gates were closed –
Elyseum of ancient myth constructed
While his abstract mind composed.

– El-Branden Brazil
Copyright January 12th, 1998 –

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Painting by El-Branden Brazil

 

 

Myth Weavers

Our world is not what it appears to be. There are those who spin the myths. There are those who promulgate the myths. There are those who don’t question the myths and follow abidingly.

Then, there are those who see the myths for what they are, step away from the myths and do everything they can to awaken those intoxicated by the myths.

Revolutions are the shattering of previously held paradigms. They are both an awakening and the beginning of a new myth-weaving cycle.

Most certainly, our current myth paradigm is well overdue for modification, replaced by one that will benefit ALL and protect our planet responsibly.

– El-Branden Brazil

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The Performance

War is waiting
In the darkness of the wings.
His improvised performance
Awaiting crowds to please.

Gun and sword in hand,
He lifts in battle readiness
For pouncing out aggressively
Upon the flood-lit stage.

The music rises, rises
More violent in its themes;
As his entrance approaches,
The horns play their patriotic phase.

Ever closer,
He listens for his cue,
As Peace decides to exit
With her failed Diplomatic beaux.

Adrenalin flowing,
War anticipates his role.
The stage director prompts him
Suddenly to go.

As the spotlight hits the ceiling
And the sirens begin to squeal,
He leaps out in a frenzied fervour
Towards the seats below.

The audience alerted;
The women start to shrill,
As they watch transfixed the master dancer
Behead the local mayor.

The humour, oh so Grand Guignol
As the blood runs down the aisles;
The show has yet to finish
And a massacre ensues.

At last, the big finale;
The show-stopper of them all.
The music fades.
The curtain drops.
And he waits for his encore.

– El-Branden Brazil
Copyright 17/10/2000 –

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