The village dealt in sheep each day
The people loved this difficult way
It caused some fights
But all of them were rites
Into becoming a better whole.
Then one day there was no more barter
The exchange of cold metal made it much harder
To lose in a deal
Or really need to heal
A broken system they found much comfort in
Two-daughters succession go astride
One hunched in apathy
The other in defeat
I could have seen beauty in progeny
Before it was
By artificial gravity
Smelling of blood-stained pittances
And a taker’s philosophy,
Their lunch-box notions
And plastic dreams
Rattled the bars on a shopping cart.
Do they, I wonder,
Feel their ease at pain? Or luxury, woe?
Though their smiling faces
Were promised, now reach
I can seem them
Beneath them, too:
Updated, upgraded, brand-spanking new
All they ever hoped to be,
Liquidation Blowout Sale.
Everything Must Go!
Other people's problems are like garage sales ~
full of shit you don't need but you can't resist to have a peek.
If the Bible said 'fuck',
everybody would fucking read it.
I just bought a copy of the New Testament.
I read in the Book-of-Books about the King-of-Kings.
I only have one question for you guys.
Where do the fuck do I get my Refund-of-Refunds?
~ The Fundamentalist Police
Loss makes greater poets of us all ~
But how we would trade that greatness in a heartbeat
to regain one moment with the one we've lost.
Sorry for your loss.
HP members please send your condolences to: