A Fire of Uncommon Velocity by Rozz Williams

Lecture of nectarines taking precedence over
the vast emptiness of my name and quickly depleting body
collapsed in holy withdrawal and a shivering wound left
unhealed by time or paranoia. Hopeless hope of nothing
to come but lonesome nights in the thick of nowhere.
Juniper daze and hold me over the barrel of your gun.
Ancient aneurysm of dysfunctional maladies,
bitter taste lingers on a tongue of misfortunate choice.
There, beneath hideous green/blue liquids await truths yet untold,
and by token of my own relinquished desire, a fire of uncommon velocity
burns the palate in star/space speed and brooding collapse…
Flat on my back, eyes turned towards heaven, black after that.
All else fades and in this haze of unequaled delirium,
I become the father who in life has evaded me
for all to see my religious frenzy played out
in turbulent half-acts at rosary pinwheels.
Blood drips wearily from the wounds
of childhood affliction, claws ripping inwardly.
Forget all I’ve previously tried to raze
and instead gaze upon the altar now assembled
to erase that which gave birth to this unfortunate
man/child. With a slightly crooked smile, replace torn,
umbilical rip cord in defense of my premeditated crime.
Unworthy bastard they call I.
And I alone shall stand  in judgement
of the mirror held before me.
Cracked down the middle
like quicksilver oozing down your golden throat,
a blood-letting jab through the arteries of stasis,
and chaos floods the body like a broken dream…
Holding on in bold-faced desperation,
holding on to one last fatal glimpse,
hands meet, touch, retract.
Burned to ember, weakness has
sunken in and taken its place at the head of this dark parade.
Stormtroopers attack, bringing up the backwash of bile,
a vile agenda lived out in monotonous pain,
forming shit soaked lives denied by those who fake at life.
Denied, maligned, redefined circles of shit costumed as shit,
cherishing shit as though we are indebted to it.
May we live to regret or forget?

This nightmare is in overdrive;
a fire of uncommon velocity.


“A Fire of Uncommon Velocity” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved. 



Who’s In Charge Here (Beneath the Triumph of Shadows) by Rozz Williams

Old ass monkeys swivel in the discuss/fiscuss lovers yahtzee style
Circle of viral disease spent in whirlpools of light hatred, beginnings of the new world…
“Jimmy trick,” the space captain moaned from beneath the cosmic red rays of radioactive dead curl “You make my heart sing”
A homosexual antibiotic for no sex in venereal hallway sleaze
Cross its path if you must return head-burn, separate the vile scent from a misspent youth uncouth elders sent these children to their demise unrecognizable limbs sway in palm shadow
Rigorous waves that I ride on, endless (so it seems), corrupt crawl, withdrawal – bent on trembling knee prayers, thrust up, thrown to sky
Eyes torn out and tattered rags of emotion
Devotion often squandered on a heap of melting flesh, mesh teeth, howl aloud –
“Forget me not, forget me not”
Recognition blurs and spurs me on to further acts of degradation
No boundaries, no limits, no space beyond acceptance of the mass genocide to come
Squealing for a fat tomorrow never known
A quick infliction and the last convulsions of life into death begin and while you may think it morbid, the reality will not hide repulsion
It breeds like a plague-ridden flea from carcass to carcass
Door to door parasite, sign your name to the list of those dying
Get a hold, grip tender with your organ…
Sugar sex on a bed of holy whoredom
There is no bill of sale with this love
Let it all be known
In false dedication, I defile all before me
Medicate the shell of a body you thought was alive
Hobby-horse-goat… gloating/bloated
Candy cotton’s spun its web of sickening, sticky rush around you – nothing as it seems
Apocalyptic memory soon come true
Riding the pale horse which taunts you, haunts you with its wholesome/precome illusion
Suck you fuck, and suck until I cum
What might it entail to flaunt you as the hustler you’ve become?
Hole in the head, dreading the next image
A haystack needle mile, descending mend-tack pile ‘o skin and we cannot escape the inescapable
How could they?

“Who’s in Charge Here? (Beneath the Triumph of the Shadow)” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved.

Dear Skin by Rozz Williams

Electronic babble
Shove off with thine elastic attitude
You condescending fuck hole, you tiny little prick
You don’t have the persuasion to crash down my power of hope with rationalization

Tower of rubble, shovel dirt back in that open hole
My soul residing? Hiding there
A devilish grin of rich desire, more fire devouring flame
And shame on you, rust beggar, the one I’ve longed for
You splendid whore

No gift perhaps, to reason on the lips of this sad, mad man
Overtaken by a vile dream in which I tumbled to earth on my disassembled feet
And you must not treat me like the others; we are not one in the same
Removed, proved to be of higher honor, least the trumpets wail
Fail to find release from this anchor, rancor of bullshit ties, these drownings

Electronic babble
Tower of rubble – shovel dirt back in that open hole
No gift perhaps to reason on the lips of this sad/madman
God forgive my slightly shifting lines in thought disfiguration

Meat as meat… defeat the source of that which spurns thee
As for me, do not mistake my misgivings as indifference to this madness that surrounds me
Often time I flee from this torturous mindstyle/deathstyle reunion
Just another onion head
Polished meal of spine structure and jaundiced horns
All the endless fragments of this distorted view of life
My soul, sold… My being? Maybe
Toss, turn, burn the smile that tries to waste you
There is no hope in repetative warfare/nightmare but then again, who the fuck am I to care?
Let us take heed of memories foretold, dear skin

“Dear Skin” was written by the late Rozz Williams. All rights reserved.


Perennial Revolution

Paris is burning.
Four weeks, the fire spreads.
Violence erupts, gas billows red,
horns and lights, cacophony rings.
Buildings burn, cars smolder, ablaze,
the shoppes, vandalized and looted.

The police have removed their helmets
as the people attempt to remove their leaders;
they’d remove their heads as a testament
against treason.

The students are stepping out.
The protests spread wide.
Across several cities,
blood stains the streets.
Rebellion and aggression,
opposite energy on the same
spectrum of hate, fear inspires
some to act without question.

Waves of individuals
destroy property, attack
symbolic establishments;
tens and tens of thousands
wage war on modern imperialism,
a cloak of socialism and fascism:

The flags of nationalism wave.
They are a marking in time,
a memory in the body politic.
Black vests versus yellow jackets.
Bombs become explosions.
Violence among people,
properties destroyed,
difference from the media,
the events left unknown
to the ignorant world.

A living relic of their history,
the French will not just eat cake.
They will hurl it at their master.
They will remove the political cancer,
the head of the wart that sprouts on their body.
The fire will spread, no centralized location.
The fuel, a sparking fire for the love of culture,
country, and people, will trump the selfish
players’ immorality.

Freedom will ring
as the root is weeded out,
the debt slaves’ shackles removed,
the secrets of history shattered.
A depth of knowledge remembered,
a spirit of unity rekindled,
respect to fires of the soul,
the flame of truth, the world spreads over.


“Perennial Revolution” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

“Perennial Revolution” is an Ekphrastic poem modeled after world events: coverage and analysis of the France, Yellow Jacket Riots. Interesting enough, the original title of this poem was “Paris is Burning,” and was written during week four of the riots, but I wasn’t pleased with the draft. To that end, I fell back on the sonnet to relay the  idea I sought to portray, as all the sonnets do so far in The Root of Many Returns. But “Paris is Burning” the sonnet was written in week fifteen of the riots (that’s right! Fifteen weeks, and I still haven’t heard anything from local or national news that covers what’s going on! Insane!). So the title, “Perennial Revolution” came from inside the poem itself, in an earlier draft. The one shared with you today, is rough, but it’s much better than it was. I don’t dabble too much in the body politic in my works of poetry and writing, but in poetry, it definitely has a place. I hope you enjoyed. 



Night of the Deserters

The lies that filled the night,
a contingent thread of peace
through omission.
Fear, a revving tide,
consolidated the radicals
it insulated, and robbed
the atmosphere of
its own gravity.
A smirk hidden
at the back somewhere,
hidden deep beneath
a mess of coif and
minstrel lyres,
the eyes reveal
the true souls of
liars, and the
hated words that
work their way
like festering worms
through snow.
The turgid corpse
of latter years
expires beneath
the crate myrtles.
It conducts its business
on the daily, collects its
dues from the restless and
spacey. It runs rails of solid
fire down their throats
and blinds them behind
the humid fumes of
lost innocence. Their
eyes are half blind
and clouded like
the deepest frost
crosses over icy



“Night of the Deserters” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 



Paris Is Burning

Fourteen weeks long this tale has become,
fourteen weeks and at five weeks undone.
The violence shared upon them all,
a demand their governors heed their call.

A fire ignited in a break for gas,
a dystopic peace on the weekend clash
the yellow coats multitude against armored law.
To true peace and justice, an anchored pall.

In reverence marches chaos in history’s wake,
an example kept steadfast for independence sake;
to ensure the name and values of a nation’s import
are no longer a commodity for globalist export.

The French have kept Paris a burning light,
dozens of cities inspire the entire world to fight.

“Paris is Burning” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 


Midnight Clouds

Mercy Street forlorn in the morning clouds.
The eyes heavy in retreat, eclipse its own vision,
iris shaking, pupil fat. The fog clings low to the
ground, the feigned winter breeze of an ill-fit
New Year and Holiday Season, all but elements
and figments of a present now passed.

Random auditory notes, celestial to organic
ooze softly through the dim blue, the prism
cast even through the multicolor Christmas
tree that stands proudly, defiant of the cycle
consumerism has set. Another buzz on the
silenced phone reminds of the artificial means
of contact: perpetuated, advanced, and liberating,
but also enslaving.

Days have passed with but a blink in time
to rest. The blackness usurps fastidiously,
a deep vacuum one hears as life vanishes
down the funnel. Falling apart. Piecing
into bits, a shred in time, a shred of time,
elapsed into a memory, the spectrum
disintegrates as static, a multicolor fuzz
established in the night. A waft of fog
streamlined like a feather, but hazy like
cotton, fills the empty space of ground,
and we the people have receded. We have
shriveled into our shells and tents. We
have succumbed to the very nature of the
beast. That is to say, our spirits are filled
with goodwill, and the actors’ pernicious
glare, stares only at the jugular.

Flesh on flesh rubs raw, hours into  love making.
The unnatural cause of a ludicrous effect, the winds
of Jupiter could not stop it. It would seal it in a glass
bowl of constant paranoia and awareness of every
move. The silent creep around the corner has eyes
one only seen at night, and the steps so carefully placed
are chosen to strike cords of discontentment as clash
decision and discernment. Faith within the huddled
space, the flames and torches light the way. The incense
waft precarious, sanctifies the base. Allows those lost
in light, the lovers late and lazy, the lonesome and the
loathsome, the legion watching many, to emote a ranc
sulpheric steam. The garbage, manure, rotten and
deceased to plague the pristine strands of fair incense,
storm clouds on the horizon. A quiet flash, a sexual pulse,
discretion is out the door. A hum electric in the veins a fizz
and pop, a clearing of the sitting soul, a buzz that rides the
very bone, opens eyes into the inner core, rewrites the brain
the mind now wired to the world. 


“Midnight Clouds” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 


COMING SOON: The Vanishing Poet, a collection by Michael Aaron Casares.