Let us dethrone this ***** little clone,
put him back in the barn where he belongs;
next to the other dozen standalone stepping
stones collectively gathering dust to the dome.
A collection of crazies chasing overblown
daisies in a field of belated paraphrases.
"Three lines should get you going, Homie!"
Bite down, giddy up, breathe out.
It's savior of the species eager to embrace
the future,but skyscrapers rise like an
oases just to fold like Fathertime's wrist piece.
Where's your patience? Check the back pages.
What's a death race without 1st place?

Crusading sapiens pound their chest
while the invading aliens blend in with the rest
and I'm too pills past drunk waiting
for the impending blimp on your radar
to changling into a Deathstar.

we all  narrate
our own destinies
smoothing the edges of
dubious memory
so we become hero
or victim, as we see fit

we paint our words with
colour and passion
and make some areas
grey or black
shading the story,
so that our heart remains clean

it is only in the small print
foot notes, that we write
codiciles and retractions
that we give a nod to time

the nebulous truth
obfuscated  by time
and the blurred re-telling
becomes the urban legends
of our minds....

our very own fairy  tales
and once upon a times
seen through the
kaliedescope of fathertime