I can hear the Band of Gypsys  
When I find her sitar eyes
But I can guess what she sees
With her moist mouth jarring wide
******* clouds from the sky

Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
In a thunderstorm of dirt stained pearls
Tranquillity is everything
As we all float down to hear her sing
And she knows full well
That she can pollinate anything
Simply without the need to sting

The half mast will be put in place  
As your heart's pump gathers in pace

If you're anticipating to catch her near
Don't act surprised if you're left to persevere
When you finally catch a glimpse
Things won't quite be as they appear  
She'll be floating in the stratosphere
Soaring high with no fear
Cos if you did not know
The Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
Burns on the fuel of your fresh tears.

I ripped my love for you from my heart
With a hoodoo doll
I couldn’t take no more of this
Waiting for a fall
And so I let you go
And so I bid you farewell

You see I can’t trust you
Cause I can’t trust me
Not to fall in love with you
Completely
And so I cut you out of my heart
And set you to the side to view from afar

Now you’re safe and sound inside my guitar
So I can hear your love echo through the stars
And now I will be free
Now your love doesn’t live in me

I ripped my love for you from my heart
With a hoodoo doll
I couldn’t take no more of this
Waiting for a fall

We crossed into Louisiana
Right about witching hour
The energy there
Invades the aura
Years of compacted sorrow
Combined with the
Old ways of root doctors
And esoteric power

You take the Hoodoo
To the crossroads

We're in the back roads
Of Monroe
They talk to you there
Ya know

I put my bare feet
To the swampy grasses
At the railroad tracks
Illuminated by the waxing moon

Hail Hecate!
We envoke thee
Commit this wax and ash
To the earth
Blessed be )0(

The flames be flyin' hot tonight,
so the horns be heatin' up just right!

Skeep-deep-do-bop-bee-bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo, hell-bop-ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo, yous,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid hoodoo.

Cuz, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am!
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fat fact ma'am.

And I dun gives a ****
if there's no reason to the ****-plan.

If you come across the fancy bowler hat,
dun be afraid to start stuttering the big skat:

Batta-tat-tat looksee-da-flat-uncool-rat
givin' his square-eyed-glare to-the-****-cats     ~meow~
skee-shee-flyin'-the-sillee like a banshee,
singin' sillee-skee-shee-all-fancee-free -

and we putssss on the br(e)ak(e)s

just            
like                                                  thisssssss­s (!)


      and
                in  h    a         l               e ....


Go! Go!              GO!

Skeep-deep-do-bop -bee- bop-do-skeetle-****-woo-woo,
hell-bop ba-ska-da fra-la-la-la-la-la-la-foo-foo,
look-see-dee-wee-boys doin' da voodoo,
look-see-dee-wee-girls playin' wid-hoodoo.

Yeah, I'm a ****-man,
it's a fact ma'am!                       x2
Yeah, I'm a ****-man,  
it's a fact ma'am.

Caught the vampire's failing smile,
cracked by teeth & venom,
wind-walking among the trees,
talking to the vipers
& the rats & the bats & the
men of the old bonetown.

Mr Mann had the right idea,
burn your books & get the hell outta Dodge.
Do not pass go & do not stop,
do NOT make out in the back of a beat-up old auto
parked next to the hypermarket on Dawn & Vine.

Mr Mann up front,
peering through the cracks in the windscreen,
the cracks in reality.
He can see the vampire's slow smile,
the shadows passing across the face of the TV screen,
& hear the old ghost voices,
the old radio voices, the 1949 voices.

Blood on leather,
black roots rising,
saliva on after-effects & after-echoes,
the apocalypse riders chasing the moon up the old dark valley,
the moon chasing the apocalypse riders right back
down the old dark valley to whatever hell they came from.

The vampires! The vampires!
Children beat hasty retreats,
hide under the boxes back of the laundromat,
not daring to peek
as black boots crunch gravel.

Mr Mann has the right surmise,
get outta the books & into guns,
get into heavy metal & iron drag,
get into lead & something magickal,
long forgotten lore & hoodoo voodoo
from years & years ago.

The vampire's smile turns awful yellow,
fades as the stars wheel & that tired old sun begins its ascent,
fades as the dawn breaks over the desert winds & cacti
& the lovers wake in their motel room in the back of beyond
& fumble for their stakes & knives & garlic *****.

Easy now for Mr Mann in the sun-kissed big blue.
Hunt it down in the tumbledowns & old desert towns.
Kick off the jams, break open the locks.
Hose it down with oil & strike a match.
Burn the reality right off that face
& that face right off reality

Splat on the sand. Grue on the sand. Black on the sand.
Mr Mann walking back to the autombile, back to happiness,
radio playing a little something from 92,
or was it 93, he really can't remember now.

Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.

"Trumpery."

Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?

[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]

trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\

Definition of trumpery

1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>

2
archaic : ****** finery

Origin of trumpery

Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive

First Known Use: 15th century

Examples of trumpery

<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>

Related to trumpery

Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or *******), claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, *******, senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle

Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus

Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum

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Spirits, sages, mystics and wizards
shamans and charmers
voodoo, hoodoo...wanga and juju
and..
old old women- those teller of tales
weavers of dreams....casters of spells

Warnings of darkness and deepness
conjuring clues or readings
from spangled stars on black nights
Guidance on this spiritual journey... this mystical quest
Sunrise into sunset... dark into night

Answers to questions you never asked
Questions to answers
long buried in self shrouded past

There are those who would lead you
to dark alleys astray
Those who would steal your hearts diamonds,
your trust.. and betray

You hear whispers and rumors
strange tongues, and hushed voices... muffled sighs
You search for everything and nothing in the shadowy mist
What are true truths... what are lies?

Keep your eyes open..receive the whole
and know..
That real truth is sometimes
in the unexpected, the untold, the unwritten, the uncharted....

Like..
in the moment of exhale from one true kiss!

With the loss of his two greatest rebel heroes,
the evil Absolute enlists the enigmatic Winter
Blonde to find a champion to replace Captain
Confederacy, l'il Dixie & White Lightnin'...

With the aid of her faithful slave Mamma
Jamma, Winter Blonde raises the spirit
of L'il Dixie using the slave's mysterious
art of ancient African Hoodoo!  

Brought to Eerie afterlife, the disembodied
ghost hovers above them, Dixie's spirit flickering
in the shadow of the large fireplace's flames...

At the astonishing sight, Winter Blonde faints,
leaving Jamma alone with the ghost... the spirit
growing stronger as the old slave continues her
jumbled chant of magical African incantations...

Until at last, Mamma Jamma is able to direct
the wild spirit into the suit of 16th century
steel armor standing in the parlor, bringing
the shining metal figure to horrific undead life...
medieval weapons & all!!!

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

We've written volumes
In blood and scars and ink
We've told a million stories
Thought a million things
We've lived some hundred lives
Laughed our faces pink
And we did all just because,
Mischievous little minx

Imagine if you'd never spoken
Never showed me who you are
Imagine if you'd been quiet
And never helped me with wolf lore
(I'm grateful, by the way)
Imagine if you hadn't stayed
Then imagine how you did
And then reach out to feel me
Because I'm not leaving
And neither are you
We've got humor and care
(And your pain-******* hoodoo)
So when we get old
We'll smile and think
And reread the volumes we wrote
In blood and scars and ink

There was a frog down in the swamp
Who'd leap a half a mile
I chased that sunday entrée
With all my skill and guile

But when I speared that monster bull
I had a weird hunch
Those bulging eyes were warning me
I sure would hate my lunch

It ain't always a gourmet cook
Who serves the very best
I fried those twitching muscles there
And ate each bite with zest

But a funny feeling took-a-holt
That made me want to jump
Soon I felt me start to crave
A cool place for my ****

I found myself a boggy bank
And did a healthy croak
I bent my legs and leaped a block
And thought my *%$#@X!!# back was broke

I learned my lesson messing with
That cussed hoodoo frog
I sit safe on my pillow now
And don't go near the bog

But I'm still haunted by the hex
That ****** old frog applied
And I'm still getting Blue Cross
For a tender underside

~~~=<♡>=~~~

How can you
describe pale blue
if you've never seen the skies?
Don't define LOVE
Lord, above!
Unless you have the eyes!

Is it a hex? Or perhaps ***
that drives us to the brink?
A little thing that makes us sing?
Is it all hearts in pink?

Voodoo hoodoo
what do you do
when you're not that strong?
You may say
it's springing May
and STILL have it WRONG!

Birds on a perch?
A Google search?
Is that how you define?
A little bee?
How can you see?
Where do you draw the line?

Is it a smell?
How can you tell
if someone has the itch?
Look in the eyes.
They can't disguise
They will always snitch!

So what's amour?
What's in store?
Is it a certain glow?
Don't ask me!
Can't you see?

I DON'T EVEN KNOW!


SoulSurvivor
6/15/2015

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THE EARLIE THE BETTER. CONTACT HIM TODAY DON'T WAIT TOMORROW.

Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.

My words come out all slurred, blurred, and censored. My heart has a faulty bad juju sensor. My nerves are practicing voodoo, got me all wrapped up in hoodoo. Always asking 'how do you do?' As if you'd ask me too. My world is red, my world is blue. My vision is all kinds of skewed. Skewer me, skewer you. Skewered life 'cause it leaves us *******. Who needs to hear another boohoo? I'll kiss my own **** boo boos. Satan's calling me like 'yoohoo' I'll ignore him like you do me, all passionless and angry. I'm a dead fish in a dead sea just practicing my moaning, for when I'm see-through and lonely. Haunting the world as it's revolving, and it's kind of revolting- knowing life goes on, as you're decomposing. I'm shedding, I'm molting; these feelings of chicken skin and insects. It was really salmonella and pests, and I guess, what the point I'm really trying to get to is nothing, oh and *******.

Left with no clues
Broken down into two
But who knew
What's into you
Unless relived what's untrue

Trying to move too
In search of new views
To detach feeling need some new tools
From remote access of Bluetooth

Feelings stuck as glue do
What's this Hoodoo-Voodoo
I don't know you
Or your crew
Who are you??
Fly away back to
Wherever you choose to

Need no helping hand to go through
Just an alter-ego to grow through
Don't let your eyes fool you
The end is near aren't you spooked too??
In search of ubuntu...

It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.

It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.

It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.

It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.

It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.

Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.

Hoodoo, Voodoo
Anything that you do
Think of what it will do
To your friends

Buildings, Guildlings
Masonic or class rings
Remember what the choice brings
When you choose

It's not so simple just to disconnect yourself
It's not about the way that you ***** yourself
There are so many things that go beyond your eyes
And the many things that remain are just disguised

Waves of syllables softly drift me into sleep, I want my dreams to be an endless sea of your soothing voice. Let your words wrap themselves around me and hold me tight as I fall from this great height, cushion me with your sighs; Heavily, against my neck- my thighs. You could breathe life, with the way you ignite my dormant nerves and get my lazy heart to work, double time. Electrify, every atom that makes up my existence with persistence and I’ll shrink down to their size, trying to hide from your naked eye. Bare your insecurities and I’d hurriedly grow and share my flaws that haunt me like a ghost disguised by my shadow. Wind blows cold as the sun crawls against the sky slowly shedding light into our separate lives, in different times; You’re in the future while I repeatedly hit rewind. I’d travel the seconds that separate us in miles, if only to see your smile- or rather, to see if I can conjure one. I’m imprisoned by the thought that I’d never be good enough, as if I’m a jester that can only birth a laugh by recorded track (Or dropping dead of heart attack.) I rehearse my jokes and practice magic on every turn of the world on its axis but I always choke when it’s time for the show, typing words that bore. The audience in my head is always snoring; tossing and turning in their eternal graves. Yet when you talk to me they’re born again like slaves to your hoodoo persuasion, erupting out of *****, grey skin; you make the wrinkles in my brain deteriorate. Clean slate, to etch myself a new face. Waiting for this dying sun to become snuffed and **** the day so I can lay myself thin against sheets and pray that you'll recite a bedtime story to me.

-SLuR

With the loss of his two greatest rebel heroes,
the evil Absolute enlists the enigmatic Winter
Blonde to find a champion to replace Captain
Confederacy, l'il Dixie & White Lightnin'...

With the aid of her faithful slave Mamma
Jamma, Winter Blonde raises the spirit
of L'il Dixie using the slave's mysterious
art of ancient African Hoodoo!  

Brought to Eerie afterlife, the disembodied
ghost hovers above them, Dixie's spirit flickering
in the shadow of the large fireplace's flames...

At the astonishing sight, Winter Blonde faints,
leaving Jamma alone with the ghost... the spirit
growing stronger as the old slave continues her
jumbled chant of magical African incantations...

Until at last, Mamma Jamma is able to direct
the wild spirit into the suit of 16th century
steel armor standing in the parlor, bringing
the shining metal figure to horrific undead life...
medieval weapons & all!!!

The Confederate Revengers
effectively destroyed; the evil
mastermind known only as
the Absolute devises a plot to
expose the Union spy in their
midst, hoping to prove the
pesky Northerner's undoing...

Summoning Winter Blonde,
Mamma Jamma, the Human
Locomotive & Moonshine to
a secret meeting in the bare
Kave of the ****, the Absolute
spells out his plan to stop the
Union from expanding the
railroad still further west...

"The red man will stand behind
us! But first we must show them
that we can stop the ******
Yankees in their tracks...literally!"

Rechristened The Confederate Crusaders,
the diabolical plot is swiftly set in motion...

Bribing the duplicitous Indian Squaw
White Dove with ample wampum,
Medusa is able to discover the evil plan...

The hyperactive Human Locomotive,
outracing the Iron Horse headed out
to the newly opened western frontier;
as the shining new engine steams
through Indian country, a surprise
attack by a horse-mounted wild Indians
emerges from the surrounding hills...

Armed with long Winchester rifles &
bows & arrows, soon the steaming
locomotive is under assault by the deadly
red savages!!! Medusa, disguised as a
genteel Southern Belle, going to the
caboose she quickly loosens her hoops
& pantaloons to the shock of the car's
frightened passengers & leaps from the
train's railing onto the tracks as the terrified
stoker feeds the belching furnace to speed
through the violent Indian assault...

Seeing herself hopelessly outnumbered,
Medusa has no recourse but to use the
Smaragdine Signet Ring bestowed to the
Gorgon Queen by Hermes Trismesgistus
himself to summon her compatriots
to help her defeat the onrushing red horde!
With the cry of, "3Ms!" at once appears
three of the mightiest warriors drawn from
the Classical Golden Age...

Mithra, ancient mysterious hero who can
single-handedly defeat a herd of charging
bulls with his super hard club that can shatter
every bone with a single blow!!!

Minerva...undefeated warrior goddess
& superlative archer!!!

& of course, the superhuman & blood-
thirsty Minotaur, freed from his labyrinthine
prison!!!

The vintage heroes making short work of
the startled red men...all the while being
watched from the hills by the cowardly
Indian Running Bear...who then sees
coming in a cloud of raised dust the swift
Human Locomotive racing to the Indians'
rescue!!!

Horses thrown through the air by bulging,
muscled arms & terrified Indians dropping
weapons & dashing off on foot... the Human
Locomotive plows through the scattering
red skins to charge the heroes directly!!!

His brawny legs moving too quickly to stop,
the Locomotive finds his face crumpled into
the Minotaur's stone-hard fist...

But also on board the train are Winter Blonde
in her everyday guise of a prim schoolmarm
along with her faithful slave Mamma Jamma...
Mamma mumbling the jumbled incantation
to raise the several spirits of dead Indians, but
as well the animated armored suit now dubbed
The White Knight!!!

Faced with an angry army of the undead,
the 3M's one goal is to ensure the train's safe
passage through the blood-haunted territory...

Realizing Mithra is fighting an empty steel
shell, his deft blows denting but not stopping
the brutish metal monster... until using her
ring of enchanted Emerald, Captain Medusa
succeeds in blasting a hole through the thing's
chest plate, the beast shuddering but unharmed
& tossing her aside to face the next oncoming
hero, the Mighty Mithra who easily smacks the
flailing arms right off the hoodoo spawned hellion...
but the detached steel fists continue to grip at
the Greek hero's bare muscled limbs...

Seeing the Arcadian champion gripped from
all sides, Minotaur & Minerva run to his aid...

Meanwhile, seeing the small bare footprints
appearing in the desert sand making their way
away from the stalled locomotive, its coal
supply exhausted by the feverish stoking of
the frightened train's crew...

Seeing no one, Medusa wondered how to best
an invisible foe until striking upon the idea
of raising a tornado of dust better to view the
figure's outline but when the ground is whipped
up into a whirling cyclone that rises into the air
not only is the female Confederate revealed to be
starkers but the spinning dust comes into contact
with low overhanging clouds -- the sky darkening
only to burst into a torrential desert rainstorm...

The Human Locomotive finding his feet mired
in mud, the Iron Horse remaining perched on a
high plateau beyond the reach of the amazing
runner's tired & weakened lower limbs...

Tuckered & unable to run uphill, the crestfallen
Southern hero slows to a brisk walk while the rain
poured in buckets... soon the unwieldy metal monster
begins to rust in place & become immobile, Mithra
is able to free himself from the ghostly armor's
fingers; the stiff suit rigid and unmoving as a statue...

The Winter Blonde standing wet & naked could do
nothing to shield her body as the ***** rain fell
all around... seeing her reddened embarrassment,
Mamma Jamma leaping from the train ran to cover
her mistress with a thin shawl...

Minerva taking up a red man's fallen bow & a handful
of arrows takes precise aim pierces the evil slave through;
Mamma Jamma collapsing at her naked mistress' feet...

The dead red spirits quenched, return with fading
howls to the red dirt... Winter Blonde taken into
Union custody, her body tarred so that she can no
longer deceive anyone with her absent appearance!!!

Miss hoodoo mother bake me a pecan pie
I’ve been gone for too many Christmases
Blood soaked magnolias splayed before white linens
Smell of a fire just stifled out, stifled out by blood
Cheeks still glistening when I came in the kitchen
“Are you searching for something or running from it?”
Fields crowned in white, soil fertilized with sweat
With heartbreak
You’re fertile, the warmth envelopes me
The birthplace of something blue, something used
I can’t say when I’ll be back again, the road is long
I’ll keep your song with me, chords of pain and comfort
Your scars are visible at the supermarket, whispered about
Billboards of turmoil everyone drives by
Lips ache for a taste of your lemonade nonetheless
I think about my time in that home, in my home
If I should have boarded that casino boat
What number would those dice land on
The one thing that I did wrong

Not swearing on my life, bad mojo, Hoodoo, strange Voodoo's
Not suggesting there are people twisting the thumbscrews
Pleasant people, pleasant thoughts, no unwilling Cards playing 3D checkers.  Did you know there are byrd's they call, woodpeckers?

That cursing curse taking hard-earned dollars out of my purse.
And what is worse...  finally carried off in a Hearse. I best marry a nurse, wait now, I did marry a nurse but she ditched that job.
Stressed-out she followed her heart and took education to work with preschoolers until the course took her off course

Teaching the children not so well, pushing ideas, propagandizing thin-privilege.  Children, it's okay to be that... that rhymes with you know what, it rhymes with fat. She left that stuff leaving her student debt and you can bet she'll pay in off in record time.

Cheap rugs all over the place, cheap rugs all over the place
Cheap rugs in time and space... I bought new sneakers, they're the type you lace. Two-faced discovered to me a disgrace only they too are part of he human-race, causing peoples to be displaced.

The Curse, it might be the first, probably not... praying the bad luck is the last. I want to leave this place, leave real fast. Move on through to that other side. Morrison had his faults leaving a lot in the vaults. Now he's free, the tub scene in the Morrison movie I don't buy, I could tell you why but that borders gossip and a lot of people would flip (out). Not 'fly'.

So, what's it all about, it's not the wordsmithing that I flout
Just me avoiding 'the' gout, getting sick, I'm having my doubt
I'll be taking another route, no matter how many people may pout
Reading tea leaves, drinking green tea, the cup holding posies, showing me I'm free, not only to survive, it's to 'I' am that I thrive