the palace of the moment having sold out
of her usual tear soaked apparel
and her casual wear fascination needing a
quick fix lead her across the wastelands the shopping plaza
to this wind-soaked backlot and its hidden wonderland
the store has no sing
just a off green door with the words
only the accursed may leave
she shimmies through the door
he makes his way up endless sidewalk
doing a little dance step every few feet
because he knows that is what a madman
would do in his place
his rags are the best he could muster
but they will serve
to be mad is fashionable
and appearance and substance is everything
he mutter to himself
he walks the rainswept backlot and its blatant ****** factory
and finds a green door with the words
****** your own pretences
he slips inside to gaze with open awe
she keeps her politics in her pocket
the latest soapbox to preach the ******** line from
politics fashionista who dabble in whatever
the latest trend on facebook seems to lend
new age drivel or some bomb throwing **** with
a distrust of anything that might be another point of view
got a real open mind
long as it something she wants to hear
shes occupying the breeze block in the backlot
sitting by a green door with the words
believe in nothing and that's all you'll have
she whimpers at the thought
but she trots in to take a look
he washes the blood off his hands
but it never washes away
don't judge me you aint
seen enough
been enough
known enough
to judge much of anything
sleepwalk through your days
with your diapers and handbills
inviting to the great change that'll never come
its all just a fashion statement
social tyrants protesting political tyrants
go find your green door
find out if its a lion or lamb
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
the palace of the moment having sold out
of her usual tear soaked apparel
and her casual wear fascination needing a
quick fix lead her across the wastelands the shopping plaza
to this wind-soaked backlot and its hidden wonderland
the store has no sing
just a off green door with the words
only the accursed may leave
she shimmies through the door
he makes his way up endless sidewalk
doing a little dance step every few feet
because he knows that is what a madman
would do in his place
his rags are the best he could muster
but they will serve
to be mad is fashionable
and appearance and substance is everything
he mutter to himself
he walks the rainswept backlot and its blatant ****** factory
and finds a green door with the words
****** your own pretences
he slips inside to gaze with open awe
she keeps her politics in her pocket
the latest soapbox to preach the ******** line from
politics fashionista who dabble in whatever
the latest trend on facebook seems to lend
new age drivel or some bomb throwing **** with
a distrust of anything that might be another point of view
got a real open mind
long as it something she wants to hear
shes occupying the breeze block in the backlot
sitting by a green door with the words
believe in nothing and that's all you'll have
she whimpers at the thought
but she trots in to take a look
he washes the blood off his hands
but it never washes away
don't judge me you aint
seen enough
been enough
known enough
to judge much of anything
sleepwalk through your days
with your diapers and handbills
inviting to the great change that'll never come
its all just a fashion statement
social tyrants protesting political tyrants
go find your green door
find out if its a lion or lamb
i don't mix well with them cream puff warriors
Request permission to use this poem