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,
Bricks and mortar, steel and boards,
Phone poles lined with power cords, on
Pothole streets, where engines roar,
'Neath smoggy skies, where jet planes soar,
Where penny merchants peddle wares, and
News reports pretend they care,
Where vagrants lay, and children stare, and
People work for lives not theirs, that's
Life in the anthill, it's somewhat absurd,
Where the ants often dream of the flight of a bird.
Where pundits stand polished, and speak empty words, and
Artists paint portraits, while posted on curbs,
Where men push carts, full of empty cans, and
Women spend paychecks, for spray-on tans, and
Truckers drive loads, 'cross a thousand mile span,
To appease the great gods of supply and demand,
Asphalt and tarmac, girders and glass,
Terrarium trees in cemented sod grass,
Ripe with the stench of exhaust fumes and gas, as
The choir lines up for the 10 o'clock mass, while the
Brokers all scream, at a packed stock exchange, as
Veterans in wheelchairs sit begging for change, that's
Life in the anthill, it's just a big game, but
Remember you're playing, lest you go insane.
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:
in the fish market of religions
and suppositions and declarations
and fierce revelations
much of the commerce is done
on the principle:
Who shouts loudest
and shouts longest
and shouts often-est
gets to empty the most pockets
of bewildered customers
(You always empty their minds
You never lose in this fish market
Even the quiet ones
the ones of mild manners and timid ways
can trawl a good number
of faithful customers
You can sell fresh fables
or smelly old tales –
they are all good commerce
Of course some slap you
right in the face
with their fish:
That too seems to catch customers…
I think you stun them with one blow
and they remain stunted all their lives