"gospels" poems
1.
Nymphomaniac-addicts,
Overweight bisexual vegetarians
Climbing trees to stay fit
and eating 80’s fried chicken *******
2.
just imagine
Aquarians full of class valedictorians
Swimming on display for graduation ceremony…
reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His *****
3.
Better yet, just imagine
Holy wars,
Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains
Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights
Under the mistletoe,
Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes
Driving through hoes
After the whistle blows
4
College Literacy classes teaching basic:
Ideas that good questions leads to good answers,
Reading reminders
Free association conceptual constructions
5.
But ************ professor:
free association **** shticks
misfires, false alarms
are all art, too,
Like sticking a dagger into an apple,
Not the edible, but the technology.
6.
Go head, deconstruct the philosophy
Of oral cute-tification,
according to the Tautology of Leviticus,
With the same three half truths, pogroms
against biological deviant... FLAGS!
7.
Cryptic gospels of a ************
Where three F.F.F’s
Stands for six six six
Like how 1mg of juxtaposition
And a dose of metamorphosis
is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon
‘cause even the Holy Ghost
drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood.
8.
Reading,
Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II,
At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts
With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes
Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
Poison spoon fed the nodding King and ended ancestors.
Holy cows bought government *****
and ate suicides grown by ***** Kubla Khan gospels.
Shantih, Leviticus, and other proper thoughts
kissed arms of air and made islands from memories of breakfast.
Eternity perished in the illusion of swallowed tongues
in the belly of an infant—
and yesterday,
Only one bullet of hallelujah stood swimming.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions
Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******
And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies
Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside
And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.
Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia
Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny
Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.
Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.
Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
If love is a religion,
And you're the God
I'd probably be an atheist
If the things you say
Are holy gospels
I'd probably burn them to hell
You're on my mind again
Attending your company
Like mass' on sundays
But I'd rather be at home
Rather than to worship
Your hypocriteness
The things you do
Doesn't match the things you say
You've made oaths, vows, promises
But that's at least what I think
You broke every single one of them
And it's ****** up, it's ******* me up;
You split my heart
Like how moses split a river
Crossing it quietly
But when you crossed
You left an unholy mark
Making it bleed, making me hurt
I have no idea what I did to you
But next time I see you,
No more, I wont;
I wont worship you no more.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
dedicated with hope to all of us
Imagine a Human Family Picnic
where everyone shows -
from every sect and hue and nation -
gathered at a common table.
The Almighty swoops down
to speak the blessing:
known to all from Torah, Q'uran and Gospels
and countless other books of wisdom -
author of our souls' aspirations.
After supper the Holy One
would call us to the sacrificial pyre.
*“Brothers, sisters and cousins,
images of your creator,
every unholy war
desecrates the face of God
and there is no other kind.
Cast your pride into the flames
and live together in peace!”*
Obediently, we'd toss our
pride into the fire,
recoiling from its smoldering stench.
The Lion would lie down to preen the Lamb's fleece
and Universal Love, released from her chains,
would walk free in every land.
August, 2006
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
In a blind of an eye,
we were flying with pigs
and swimming with pigeons.
Marching alongside famous carcasses
and singing gospels with the Pharisees.
We stood on water
and bathe on the pyroclastic flow.
A flock of ants gave us clothing,
as the army of sheep gave us a scolding.
We drank the Nile ‘till we got thirsty
and Bismarcked our way into the Revolution
and fought the Bolsheviks
alongside Lenin.
We cooked the ***
cooked it right down to the marrow
until we were walking down to heaven
to rescue Rasputin.
Overlooking eucalyptus groves,
we made love,
while they were out with bullets
searching for a truce.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
jesus and judas kissed in the garden
moments before the world caved in.
the gospel of judas says that
the betrayer was the most loved of all disciples,
that jesus took him aside and
taught him touched him laughed.
there are two sides to canon, history, myth:
someone somewhere at sometime
wanted a better story,
where the betrayer was held close
and favored, forgiven—
but the gospels all end the same.
the son is strung up for someone else's sins
as judas wastes alone in the garden.
intention is a matter of interpretation
but what is silver worth, really?
metaphor disintegrates
and you come to me in my dreams.
to love you after all of this
is apocryphal— tempting yet untrustworthy.
you're not judas,
i'm just a mortal man,
and there is no gnosis, no hidden knowledge,
only apocalyptic revelations now.
the world is irrevocable, just born.
i miss you in the same way
jesus met judas' eyes on the cross.
somewhere in a field of blood
or a forgotten library buried under the earth,
there is a better story.
over time only becoming more unknowable,
hopeful fragments turning to dust
in trembling hands.
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 11:48 PM UTC
~
*Memphis
and the King,
plagued up
to his neck
in denial,
turning remote
controls
into staffs,
staffs into snakes,
jackals,
and hounds,
shaking the sistrum,
singing gospels
full of mystery
to a god,
a girl,
and state of mind
he will never solve,
asking skies
of transulent
orange,
from the far corners
of his world,
for pharmacopia,
then granting
Moses
his freedom
in exchange
for a box
of hot glazed
doughnuts,
and always
his little
wild petunia,
painted face
and percolating
body,
skin smooth
as the eastern Delta,
her weighted down heart,
his tyranny,
his self-destructive tongue,
her asp*
~
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
I build my new life over graveyards swollen,
each journey stolen on paths walked before;
the oak church door, the adolescent postures,
first breath of **** first taste of flight
amongst grounded freedom, amongst polluted nights.
I trade eyes with women over numbered tables,
contriving fables from coffee cups, loose-tongued gospels
for manufactured apostles, remnants of mistreated advice;
last pocket of **** last drink of the night,
I have learned when to swallow, I have learned when to fight.
I found myself in the ground-zero wreckage,
last vestige of meaning and useful obsession,
those drunk-dial confessions, aftermath of silence;
first smoke of the day, last image of starlight,
I have forgiven my failings, I have kept them in sight.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa
Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery
Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements
Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations
CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
The rebar skeleton of a hymn
Celestial rust sifting in
Skin and its architecture
Oh, the tectonics of Sin
Thrush lashed to husks
Lungs dipped with resin
Wine with gall, the Synoptic gospels
Recolored lithographs and
Rhymes of tinsel cord
Lost palaces of Tangiers
The Late Cretaceous fossils
Vibrate with fear.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC
picture perfect, sadly, doesn't translate into emotions. paperweight relationships usually die with the threat of emitting a spark. we are the people who were raised not to tame the flames inside us. this is the only way we know how to love. it's either we both go down this rabbit hole or you can sit your *** down in Kansas, Dorothy. there is no in between, we either entangle ourselves in this folie à deux or nothing at all. sad to say you'll never know how brutal honest lust feels like. how these muffled moans sound like unwritten gospels. how these jaw clenching sighs are the only prayers that cannot be held back by the ceiling. I'd always choose primal over prim and proper. if it's anything short than honest, consider it fake. life is too short to spend it people who are half measures.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
My lungs are filled with more nicotine
than the average 90 year old pack a day smoker, you see
smoking runs in my family.
And if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that all it takes is a spark,
a spark that always has the best of intentions
a spark that always was meant to help
a spark that’s always to catch a glimpse of the unknown in the dark
and then there’s a flame and an ember and the soft, hollow wheeze of
smoke.
Entering my newborn lungs because of your newborn stress born out of your
newborn wedding dress.
You just wanted to make sure you looked good.
And you should.
But now my lungs are filled with the toxins of
broken hearts taped back together
tragic love stories, more than I can remember
of men, come and gone,
And more men come along,
one’s who like new kinds of smoke
the kind that involve words like
****
stem.
****
****
***
Or how about illegal?
How about enfeebling an infant to make sure you can pay rent
because you’ve spent every cent of his
child support from your
******
sticky
divorce on
***
****
****
A habit that’s taken over for too long and it’s only a matter of time before I’m…
gone.
Because every time I open my lips to breath. To dispell the smoke, the poison, to exhale, to express, my lips are sown shut with your tapping cigarrete
and gossipping nicotine
and looping heart-broken scene I’ve seen more time’s than I can count
And if this is what you’re about,
Always needing a spark
A flame
A ****
A ****
Or any other addiction that will never last quite long
Enough, I’ve had enough.
There’s a window to fresh air that I now know you’ll never help me reach
but once I get there my lungs will sing gospels of
Love that stays.
Of drug free days.
Of a mother’s loving embrace that doesn’t involve a wheezing spark.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
ah, love,
you're a walking tribute to anarchy
and i love to hear you preach -
boxcutter lips wrapping around
the holiest words of blood and viscera,
rage and fear
that clench in the throat like a diamond called from coal.
in the name of the lord you drink the sun
and the burn is familiar,
an old friend
the father of the righteous fire
that drives you to drag down the sky,
or drag up the earth -
anything to approach
empyrean heights:
in your sermons you scale mountains to break into heaven,
dragging your scars
behind you.
you break glass just to prove that nothing lasts.
every manifesto is another gospel
in your holy book,
your promise
that promises mean nothing.
love me like a miscarriage,
hold me like a cancer -
prescribe diamorphine to the world
and watch it choke on numbness.
*those who fear pain
deserve to feel nothing at all,*
you say,
*those who fear pain
deserve to never die.*
bestowing the world with
the worst curse you know.
boxcutter lips
ripping words to shreds.
molotov eyes
and paper lungs.
your paper-lantern lungs
shine through your back
and you smother them with cotton to **** the sickly glow.
the sun you swallowed is still pooled in your lungs,
and it shines like a blasphemous joke -
green light in your sick midnight,
a burn to rival your molotov eyes,
your righteous fire.
you live like steel to forget your paper lungs.
*brothers, sisters,
have you heard the good news?
you won't be the first to die.*
of course not, love,
we can all see the collision course you're on.
walking tribute to anarchy,
you're crafting your own doom.
{oh, but i'll go down with you, love,
i'll carry all your scars for you
and blow out the sun in your lungs -
let me show you, love,
what i can do.
let me show you how sick i can be -
i've a twisted mind and i'd like to prove it,
like to take all your scars upon myself
and burn down heaven
if they won't hear your sermons.
i am your weapon so wield me well.
i am your weapon
and together
we will bring the heretics
low.}
ah, love,
you're a walking tribute to anarchy
and i want to watch you suffocate
when your fire burns the last of the oxygen.
your footsteps are ashes and broken glass
and i follow
close behind.
you scream
and curse
and cry to heaven
and i smother the sun in your lungs.
in your sick midnight sermons,
heaven pulsates like an open wound
and i stitch you up,
keep the gangrene from your gospels.
ah, love,
in your throat
coal turns to diamond.
rage and fear
behind boxcutter lips.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
You strip naked and then
Display your protruding ribs and your gentle curves
Bask in the lust and admiration of drooling men
Glued to their MacBooks, fingers pressed to nerves
You think you are a *** symbol
Your beauty commands respect
Strong and nimble
Attention simply what you expect
But you’re wrong about your power
You’re weak, tied with a tether
A fragile, dainty flower
Crumbling under a feather
You do what they tell you to do
Tiny **** are better than sagging thighs
Body hair like buzzing flies
Cellulite
Overnight
You are a socialite
Swallow pills so hearty
Starve day after day as you become more vein
Stay up all night at parties
Prolong the pain
Hover over the toilet below
Half crying, half vomiting, hungover
Your guilty pleasures are reality shows
The Biggest Loser, Extreme Makeover
Love, *** and lust
Drive you to do this
Or maybe you just want trust
For someone to care instead of dismiss
The powder from the thick white sponge invades your nostrils
It is the bread, your red nail polish the wine
Vogue and Cosmo your glossy gospels
Your closetful of designer shoes a shrine
Cocktail dresses and Gucci are your new burger and draught
Finding nourishment in Martinis, icy words
Why do you think this will make up for your past?
All it does is make it worse
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
(In Memory of Miss Araceli M. Katigbak, TMA’s Miss Grammar)
You taught us
to talk and write head up high
in a tongue to foster,
that is not our mother
The scroll of rules
and the roster of exceptions
you’ve mastered
and you made us master,
patiently you nurtured
the timid buds
diligently you challenged us
daily, and your voice
still reverberates –
Correct practice makes perfect!
Beyond subject-predicate agreements
Your treasured grammar lessons
taught the young at heart,
the malleable minds:
Every man or every woman is
but
Men or women are,
regardless or irrespective
of beginnings,
required to know:
1. There are rules to be followed.
- and we expanded this to our lives,
and not just our paragraphs and sentences
2. There are exceptions to be considered.
- and you indirectly taught us,
to recognize differences
and that difficulties of the English language
are just like people’s frailties
and our friends’ idiosyncracies
3. Mastering grammar is good
but honesty is the best!
And thus, your lessons most precious
are far above your prim and proper dress and shoes
and your gospels of correct usage, syntax and other linguistic gems
delivered good citizenship and how-to-be-a-good-friend items.
The Good English we learned are words to live by
You’ve given us treasures no money can buy.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
The Church is the undying antagonist to the soul,
What was once a pure practice, has now been sold,
It's an undying commodity
That sells definitive absolution,
An unresting subsidy
That force-feeds their pollution.
-
The throats of unsure masses,
Are at their max capacity,
The unknowing public,
Craves Leaders' depravity.
To find God, one must first find themself,
Or find themself subjected
To a liar's daunting Hell.
The contradictions in the library of religions,
Written on Earth by men, with their own conditions,
Have soiled the name of God's Word,
They chose the verses carefully to
Distribute amongst the heard.
-
For Christians such as I,
Where is Judas, where is Mary?
Their gospels from the Holy Book
Ripped out and now miscarried,
Why did a peaceful Pope and King
Sanctify a genocide?
How do they know that Heaven,
For this exception, will subside?
-
Does God not weep at the loss,
Of any children slain upon his Earth?
So then why must we put Hindus, Jews,
Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists through eternal rebirth?
-
Each faction that lies herein
Has flaws amongst themselves,
The contradictory messages,
Lie entwined and fervently spelled.
-
Why does each religion preach
To love among another,
Yet wars are caused on their basis,
Of freedom from each other?
Look into your heart of hearts,
And "excuse" this ungodly behavior,
Save yourself your ******* pity
And start your own God to savor.
Find within yourself what is right,
Not to them, but to your own mind,
God will see your heart open,
With righteousness and kind.
-
We take the written, and copied oral stories,
Scribed years after the event
By man to mean they are of God's own lips
And to man we do repent.
That is blasphemy in itself
And we lie to one another,
About what we "know" to believe,
And chastise our own brothers.
-
This is why fewer Believe,
It is our elders' longing fault,
That they cannot explain questions,
Without expressing their own flaws.
The generations are no longer stupid,
But intelligent and wise,
They do not see within themselves,
That God himself in guise,
Of tests and corrupt men,
Within the religious establishment,
These dictatorships,
Are meant to blind us from within.
Release your heart and remain steadfast,
Their cultures cannot then bite,
We will achieve Paradise through Freedom,
And the evil, my God will smite.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Pleiades,
hot blue and extremely luminous.
From across the blackest ocean
seven sisters call, but
just three are putting out and
only one loves me.
That's okay...
She's been my favorite
since she said,
"It takes a mighty rocket
to pierce the night sky and
****** into space."
******* right.
I write my atheist gospels
using only the letters of her name.
I collect the relics
of long dead nova clusters
to construct The Grand Heart Emoji.
And if I never make it back to space
maybe one day
we can hold hands
in San Diego.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
Love is a terrible thing.
A horrid and invisible thing.
The one thing that defies the human
Fear of the unknown
Oh but we want to know it.
We want to see it to hold it
So badly that over the millions of years
Of both our and its existence
We have died for it, killed for it
Begged and sobbed on our hands and knees for it
This invisible force of good feelings and warmth
That we think circles tangibly around us-
Swims and ebbs around our fellow man
Connecting us all and touching the lucky ones
But it isn’t enough.
We want to see it.
We want love to take a form we can mimic
And hold forever
So over the years we have thrown things at it.
Hoping love could somehow catch it
Be consumed by it, covered in it
Its illusive form reveled to us finally
With our clever trick
Writers douse it with ink
Artists with paint
Bakers with flour
Churches with gospels and white ropes
And smartest of all
Teenagers, who throw at it their own bodies
Hoping to trap it somewhere
Between both of their naked beings
Those teenagers who don’t have anything else to offer it yet
Nothing to throw at it
Nothing to lose in it yet
Still thinking love isn’t a terrible thing.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
i never knew when forgiveness of ******
deviations equated to
the obscurity of citizen allowances,
whereby i was excused from doing ****
like i was excused from having a conscience
stealing your herd of sheep...
but i guess i must have a medieval mentality,
******** childish, having to interpret
the profanity of the tetragrammaton
with the canonical gospels' acts of dispersion,
you said ****** were akin to
meat cleavers... fair enough...
god forgives me butchering you like you
were forgiven having a frolic in the hay...
and we're all one big happy family...
'cos i swear that's when ambiguity on the dogma
entered and the nadir was expressed:
sin - ****** ambiguity - equated itself
to crime - citizen ambiguity -
you want to put that forth to Buddhist
authority chaining ******** bandwagons of
thieves en route to the Tibetan Vatican?
only so much is allowed,
given you're championing one Jew of your fancy
while giving others the gas-chambers...
ain't it just Prince's 1999... we're gonna party
like it's 19-99.... i think you mistook sin with crimes...
that's my "doctorate" opinion...
you said **** with thieving being synonymous,
Christ was saving Greek intellectual culture
with the pederast **** to boot...
St. Paul was encouraging circumcision,
twat-like people with a statue of Buddha asking
whether head meant the shaved one ******
or whether it meant the prickly one gagged on
was on the cards - goose-pimple **** frostbite...
the moment when the forgiveness of sin
turned into the forgiveness of crime...
hence such ****** freedoms right now,
and a... ah... whatever... of challenged citizenship,
why would i? why would anyone even bother?
**** it, let's go crazy, Las Vegas is waiting for us,
the cowboys will never churn out a Thatcher
to "rule the world".
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
As the crow flies over yonder
Rusted strings beckoning their call
The wind in the weeping willow sings
Redeems those ugly sins longer
Leadbelly played the midnight special
With Roberta dead and gone
Pieces in the trees, except
For her soul which belonged to another
Devils got my woman tonight
Heads twisting and turning in my sleep
Rising flames going south of heaven
Fear bearing fruits of the womb
Boy, he could play
He could make the wood cry
He could sing and howl like that
With scripture and gospels fly
Prodigal of the rising sun
Voices carrying his wings of charm
Playing tunes whispered by fiends
That mistook his woman for some strings
Willie Brown knows the crossroads
Ages ago in the summer day haze
Watching friends like Robert trade their
Fingertips for sliding bottle licks
Hellhounds got my woman
Dealing cards from under her dress
My body whipped and beaten
With worms squirm in ****** mess
There goes the one, the man in black
Tipping his hat to me
The Morning Star approaching, asking
“Do you want to learn from me?”
The crooked tree like the arm of death
The clouds rising over the red sky
Yellow eyes lingering and staring
Weighing my soul for the perfect price
Mud covered my feet
But it hasn’t been raining
Nightmares crawling from my nails
With crows sounding like my momma
Devil strumming with my woman
Devil grinning, with a mouth like a cellar furnace
Hell wanting a piece of me
Sliding bottle licks and singing blues
Under the crossroad tree
A ghostly soul who can play
For the traveling eternity.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC