Will Baker

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Writing

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Lux de caelo

I wrote these two pieces as spoken word accompaniments for a couple tracks on my friend's album, for which I also did the artwork.



(Untitled)

This blooming dawn I bathe in chi’ro cloud 
which cursives the scur scarwork o’er my throat
that I may kneel here silently avowed
to be so wrest from man’s tight’ning garrote.
And yea from jetstream I pan murmured truths,
these sparkling fractal vortices to Him
project upon my sooty face said sooths
which grant resolve to questions fought within.
How astralgnostice awes and bleary blithes
we enders debted by unconscioned sense
He has so lovely wept with crystal scythes
the slits which fawn us our impermanence. 
But how will I know songs of seraphim
if I’ve not heard the cries from Niflheim?



Lux de caelo

I wake in a fit of ferrous coughs as a chalked and unfamiliar blood runs the splits of my lips. Through the open hatch above me the disconsolate sky churns thickly and more thickly with ash and skin and ashen skin as behind it Sol waits fatherlike, his thousands helio palms in helical calypso to the latency of a firm, but fair punishment.

Does he know it’s just me?

I’ve tried to mimic him alternately in threat, in parody, and in resignation; to apprentice his astral patience that I might rest my unearned rest interminably and in so fashion this cockpit a coffin. But I can’t unfist my hands. Sol with his petulant children—child—and me with mine. I can’t unfist my hands. Moons now without eat or drink and more dream than sleep as the edges soften on the raze around me and it all begins to feel as if it ought to be as it is and oughtn’t’ve ever been as it was—a feeling I’ve never known but desperately assumed could be felt. But I can’t unfist my hands. Phantom currents quell the ripples of my breaths until I am to the airs an ancestral form of mass; somatic memories deep within them that plead for influence in curious but unselectable ways. And still I can’t unfist my hands.

Do I know it’s just me?

So I knuckle the ignition. A magnetic pulse seizes my spine and sends a splinter fire down my throat and into my lungs. Lamps and switches illuminate around me in a gaudy utility ornamentry and I watch the sky slither out the closing hatch with a hiss. As the cockpit shudders I stretch and weave my limbs through melted patch cables and circuitry which spark axonal and dendritic between charred paneling. I knuckle the boosters and the display shields before me flicker camera projections of the emptiness host to my vessel. And my vessel and I in it rise.

Through the vortex to the vertex, a stain lifted from the earth. 

Through the display shields, an iridescent blackness, teeming with other older Sols and younger, galaxial nebulae which roil about themselves over eons, fecund and blushing before a silent audience capable of such noise that could eliminate noise. Earths vanishing with speed but without velocity. An unaccounted charity of energy exchanged between genesis and forever.

This all an imperturbable pax so theriac to my guilted ills. 
I hold my hands open before my face. 

Maybe it’s not just me.

— 2016