I saw a satyr in the woods, A centaur in the meadow; Travelling on, I remarked on a fawn Hallowing out reeds for a pipe. The world around me was green, The water ran clear, cold and fresh, The air I breathed was historic. Crosses were in the future. No Mecca to visit, No Temple to rebuild.
I am a beach ***, a sun-worshipper, a tree hugger. I will worship the dove, not the sacrifice. I will homage the god of the kingdom that is here, Before she rejects her offspring.
These are interesting times Blessing cursing each moment Smelling like the '80s Rhyming with the '60s Cringing like the '40s Gasping at '17
It's The War of The Worlds II Man versus man versus nature and self A free-for-all melee, just name it Where bacteria and viruses and gas and atoms Will be our doom in the end But not before we've wreaked havoc
I know how to grab your attention, but I'm not sure how to keep it, so I'll keep this as shallow as I can before diving into the deep end.
I know how to bob and weave, but I'm not sure what I believe in. Something to do with the conservation of energy, I think; expending it in a dream-like series of experiences before eventually going back to being a part of Everything.
I know how to cut a rug, but . . . well actually I don't think I know what that means. Hang on while I look it up:
To dance. "Twenty disco classics on one CD. Now there's music to cut a rug to." Usage notes: also used in the form cut a mean rug ( to dance very well): "This flamenco dancer cuts a mean rug."
Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep. Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed (no *** in the bargain – price too steep) until San Martín, divine caballero deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.
(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)
Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores. Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors, Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.
As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood Oduduwa pretended he understood; but his mother-in-law knew he never would until Olódùmarè returned from the feast having sacrificed roosters while facing east.
The santero drew me a pictogram to protect me from forces my poem conjured but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.