Headlong to Doom

This is a country/western song I've been writing in the style of Johnny Cash:

Headlong to Doom

Verse One:
Red, white, & blue scars across your face:
The crest of a hero in love with power's embrace,
Oh, sinnin' saint.
So patriotic, young, & full of fight
For any god & country, destroy & delight,
No end in sight. So blind, no end in sight.

Verse Two:
Seein' stars, & stripes of bloody wounds.
No man is victorious when gunshots make you swoon
Headlong to doom.
Oh, once a soldier also was a groom;
He fell, never grew older, cried "Son I never knew,
Still in her womb... forgive me, son, in her womb."

*Dobro Solo*

Verse Three:
I roam down the highway on dirt the colour of rust.
The air shimmers before me. A mirage that I mistrust
Forms in the dust.
I see myself a shining stallion,
No scars, so naive. I sought medallions,
but no war is won--I know--no war is won.

Refrain:
Headlong to doom.
Headlong to doom.
Headlong, headlong to doom...

megalomania is sexy

[addressed to a nameless no one}

I said, “I feel invincible. Do you?” You said yeah.
...And I faltered.
Absolute megalomania looked good on you.
Usually the joy is impenetrable, dangerously slaphappy and naïve, and completely erroneous. But such is the paradox of everything I encounter—as soon as I assert its definiteness, a jolt of knowing opposition erupts. Destined to falter.
Troubling, really.

I suppose it’s just some youthful high—and it’s strong as fuck, cause it’s lasted for twenty-two years and still going strong. Giddy with life, in denial about unconcerned with unwilling to process death. Rationally, yes, of course I’m going to die. I’ve been told. But basically, aside from those morbidly obsessed poets and cancer patients and the odd wise-beyond-your-years prodigy, youth are invincible against not feeling invincible.
Ergo, delusional fools. But resilient-ass motherfuckers.

And then it crumbled, for a moment. I don’t think for me. I think it was for you. I could feel all the precious vulnerability of your naked pride, your triumphant delusion; your mortality in stark contrast to your words of might. My throat burned [threatening the onslaught of tears], vice grip in my chest, uncontrollable buckling of my knees. You will dissipate, disappear, descend to the dark of the cosmos. And I feel that, so much more than for myself; after all, when I'm dead and gone, I won't be there to miss me. That, and I love you more than myself.
And then the slaphappy, lovesick, ever-persistent euphoria took hold... ever faithful, on cue.
[Destined to falter.]

Throughout my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood, I was invincible. Against repeated, methodical, almost mechanical near death experiences; in fact, furthered by triumph over these experiences. I retreated into the mind, with the profound and awesome for my comfort. Death-defiance because the cosmos were on my side. Then daydream and wonder made way for sex drive, though pain still lingered.

And sex drive doesn’t just ignore, it literally attempts to counter death. Someone will live if I don’t—and they’ll be like me dammit[!] and someone I love even more than me[!] And it governs everything, from your soul mate to ads on TV [pin-up girls?] to the way you curl your toes. But yeah, yeah, yeah we’ve all heard that, well-familiar now… if not at least by experience.

But then even that goes away. Whether the attraction stops for you or in you. And then you’re left facing an old demon from the back of your mind, only friend, alone.  A sad knowledge that you've always had, but somehow only just now realized.
And I guess then you stop feeling invincible?
I don’t want to shake it off, but I don’t like being so profoundly wrong. Or so aware that I'm not really aware.

There's no reason to fight it.
Megalomania keeps you sane.

Morcifer

*on the nature of God's ability to give life, take life, cause angels to fall to hell, etc, while still being good (a lost, often unrecognized balance)

Morcifer, my dancing black angel, whose laughter was the chimes of armageddon,
unfolding and rocking and plunging, dense redness in my mind.
Darker than evil, darker than love, a lost balance,
his was the youthful rejoicing and relishing in the pain,
the destruction, the ruins, the perishing,
the arcane.
His own call was his song, his instrument of peace, and his throng,
but "Can't you see?" he said, "I'm not that strong..."
And he stamped his feet to the ancient tune and rhythm of throbbing hearts of lovers
and rumbling earthquakes and the beating of golden angelic armies,
and the firmament began to collapse itself.
Out of love, joyful love,
he could do anything and all,
wreak destruction and renewal to realms beyond,
cause the angels of eden to fall
[into hell, out of love],
make a soul perish with clean-stained hands, breathe life into a cold white gravestone.
Anything; to save love itself.
Mortality was the chariot of Morcifer, my dancing black angel.
His soul is young yet.
Howling of the primordial chaos of the supreme,
of love, of delight, and the human being, he cried
"Thou art never alone!" and unleashed his mortal perils, retribution and absolution,
reaping and wreaking mortality.
"And I am the ruiner, the destructor, and the perisher and I love. So join the above."
But they never knew, never knew, thought his love was hate; so he woefully sang,
"And perdition... will be my life!"
He had another Angel of Armageddon, Messifer, and they screamed
"That we love is our holy light, and our holy dark yet!" And as he rocked suspended in the air,
his laughter [the colour of the aurora],
echoed and their memories
billowing in the wind
faded fast, and their words only rang at last,
where bodies blended with stardust and grass:
"Oh, how I love you..."