But what of the unsingable

But what of the unsingable, unprayable, unbeautiful prayers
The ones of anger and anguish and of staring into the night

What of the words which clash and clang desperately along the
keyboard of your soul
unable to play the sharps in key and keep the rhythm and timber of the
famous Gielguds of the past
What of the deepest fears expressed in nonwords
the deepest pain expressed beyond words, in tears
but which tear at the soul and fix the mind shakily on the inexpressible

These are the prayers unreadable by the Sunday readers in beautiful calm and quiet acquiescence, the masked impostors of denatured, perfected and meaningless words.
They are the prayers of angry fire, of nearly incomprehensible depth.
Of brittle bitterness whose questions turn the heart into
a tempestuous sea of sleepless tossing

The prayers of truth are these.
They are the listened to prayers.
They are the prayers unsanitised by the disinfectant of goodly grammar and red correction pens, busy in their decomposition

These are the words that tumble not onto pages in anxious expectant correction
These are the words that spew and shout and rage and fortify the fortresses
of honest being; of cellular, DNA drenched inexpression, the
unable-to-be-coherent, inarticulable reality.
Unspoken things which claim our hearts and minds in violent, sweat-sodden nights insatiable in their endless appeal of the oft lost words;
The soulcry, ravaging their beauty into visceral, inelegant expression of the depth; unsingable, unprayable, the unbeautiful words

They are the soul songs which do not claw around a soundless padded brain
for the perfect word in perfect rhythm and perfect harmony with resonance, and nodding in agreement

They are the incomprehensible shrieks of soul songs clanging for an answer
which comes not in the routine of quiet contemplative thought
But in the swirling cauldron sea of dangerous beneath the surface, ripping tides of raving, frenzied feeling untranslatable to words.

They are the soul clamours, wrestling forces stronger than strength
of longing for life and peace from peace itself,
of needing more than death the knowing of the song
of a wanting stronger than life from Life itself.

These soul songs are no song. But the primordial wail and whimper rising from the eternity of man’s separateness and unconnectedness
Of deeper than knowing where the words, which were they to exist, would
belong to a language unknown;
of a language yet unacknowledged by the shuddering soul depths

They are the uncomfortable dissonance, the ear-offending, unrefined, untrained to key or tone or timbre.

They are the clanging cymbals of must-be-felt pain and rage and reason
and faith.
They are the prayers of the mighty to Might Itself
They are the honest authenticity of seething need to know and be known.
They are the soul’s requite for unravaged hope, spoken in the abyss of veridical honesty, and found clinging to the One who knows all of the dissonant melodies and needs no language, no words.