Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Burnt Bacon

Each girl's face is an arrow that points towards yours
its' point punctures my wards
and I tear out cupid's curse
though it makes the wound worse
gaping open as spread legs
fertile as fermented eggs
porcelain decorations
Russian pewters
the extravagance
past tense
sensed so strong the one I long for
may as well be before me
her presence is a smoke
soot undone my lungs
wheezing like a wise man
ceasing his advice
to turn survivors from vice
lest the dying living be the damned
condemned by warning from terminal man
at this terminus bright light's my guide
guys and gals pay to ride
the river Styx and those who've drunk forget
the weighty baggage of self
our first desire a corruption
even a loving core who'd see man soar
with virtue proud, great deeds his shroud
the proclamation becomes loud
in song and tale
from far and wide
in home and vale
we're at his side
imagining what adventures we'd strike
out on if we left our homes
and how we'd like
stories of our own
but warriors gain tolerance to violence
'til they don't flinch at families mashed together
in simmering pyre-piles of bloody excrement
where their tender hearts went I know
to lovely lady wisdom
who makes boys into men
takes innocence
transforms men to heroes
and those unaffected serve traders in her good
here goes my attempt to keep
the hope she hasn't reaped
to preside as a Pope
jealous-vigilant over his herd
mistrustful of every stranger's word
against the incursion
of another incision
removing liaisons
from imaginationland
known to some as heaven
which sends emotional helium
to lighten the weary woes of years
gnosis puts a tariff on relief transports
were we calmed by hypnosis
we'd want for nothing
but desiring something
gives us suffering
we'd all be fufilled
as the surfer seeking a perfect wave
who can conceive of a better ride
after every straddled tide
by speech we think him addled
his skull a hollow rattle
but he got that from pot
and though he speaks stupid alot
atleast he doesn't rant.

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