Joan wasn’t from the arc.
She was sanctified because we missed out from the start.
We shouldn’t have burned the matriarch.


A thousand and more of us stand baffled by the preachers who we think matter.
Haunted as much by ghosts than dictators.

We rotate where we once thought
We’d be falling flat.
Who’s immune to the walls in our heads?
We got to believe that magic can exist in a hat,
Created hierarchy between thoughts and it is a fact that
curiosity itches like the bugs in motel beds.

Grandmas had the blues
Theirs and ours,
Grammar and gamma rays
Had us learning for hours.

Orphans can’t bare being motherless,
Father issues are fathomable
And we decipher blessings
that seem more bulletproof than vests.

Listening to the creature’s sighs,
I’m the creator’s son.
Cheap thrills turn me on,
I’m putting bullets in a gun,
And i’ll be aiming at the sky.

I’m good with some nails and a hammer
I can inhale and get hammered .
I’m a bit like both my fathers;
I follow the trail;
I’m a drunken builder of stories and
Won’t fail to deliver.