Jesus runs in Everglades, Mohammed climbs the roof
The Angels stamp in anger as the Devil stands aloof,
A wandering Pope in la-la land while Jewish hands do writhe
Those apoplectic Muslims glare while Catholics pay the tithe.

Religion, girls, has hit the skids…the game is up on God
With rosaries rotating hard, theologians do nod,
While Mormons rant moronically with frankincense and myrrh
The irreligious bark and howl in Rastafarian fur.

Sectarian’s recant Sanctum’s Shrine the rite of soul is lost
As neophytes are dancing… the High Priest counts the cost,
Theocracy unbalances as Voodoo’s stamp the floor
And the Prophets throw their hands up, fast retreating for the door.

It’s transcendental disbelief that’s nailed it to the Cross
With the Priesthood chasing little boys all credence here is lost.
With sanctity’s monastic plunge the pagans roar and shout
As Shamans scream their incantations…God declares a route!

There is silence in the Temple now, stillness in the pews
As dust lies thick on altars, a nervous clergy holds reviews,
What, once, was good and vibrant here, is now as dead as dust
As the Blood Red Wine evaporates and Holy Bread…to crust.

Marshalg
Feeding the pigeons by the dusty, open door of the very, empty Chapel.
30 November 2013

Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic,
Are beats of emotions unspent.
Overly protective, and somewhat selective,
My shoes on the gravel-laden roads
Of winter are old.
Your silvery hair, neat and bare
Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I.
My name becomes forgotten,
Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines
So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance.
The secret of warmth is lost
As the moth dies into the hold of my hands.
Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message
Surround my palm-tree hair.
My front door is open, hopin’ for a
Short visit, of friends I had not there.
Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in
On the cuckolded dreamers.
Repent.

A cashier in aisle 23, Lane 4,
Hair pulled back into an ***** bun, flyaway strands of hair framing her face,
Eyes adorned by shaky eyeliner, (It must've taken her years)
The hands that grab the groceries are trembling
with the use of age and alcohol,
Still wishing at 30 for that Prince Charming who ran away with another princess,
Still wishing she could be somewhere else in life.
And you thank god that you are not like that cashier, a slight feeling of guilt twisting your chest
as you walk away to the car.

You don't know what the hell Lady Gaga's lips look like, (or care)
but if someone said that your lips looked like her,
it would be the first priority to see what they looked like
Seeing if your lips would fit the 'standard' of society,
40% acquired self obsession and 100% U s e l e s s E f f o r t


A father who thinks that winning is the minimum requirement
A mother whose vision of a perfect child is to be of metric height and square body weight, all charted down to the exact millimeter
A testimony you were born required to say
A task you were burdened with on the day you were born.

And you fulfill it.

You run, chasing past those days of tears and desperation-
ignoring that self who still cries out for mercy and pity
You stumble past, clasping hands over your ears and shouting until your voice cannot be heard,
drowning all useless prose and beauty
Falling, falling, over and over.
The clear and twisted road has thrown you off many times
Into the grass, where even the slightest prickle of dew
(Such a translucent silver)
feels like the cold desolation in a thousand years of vivid monochrome.

Now, walking back to your car
Thinking of what a brilliant, triumphant life you have lead,
You thank god that you are not like that cashier,
Rotted away at the age of 20
Fabric of skin dulled with desperation and time
Wishing moronically for something premeditated only in her own mind
(How many bottles of wine and cigarettes did it take to chase away the pain?)
"Tranquility is a drug", someone had once said, inspecting immaculate nails by the illuminated window.
Lament and Languish were words you never learned, after all.

and thus each man's script, from on high,
how res cogitans  simply becomes res vanus,
and is signed ουροβoρος oφις,
tail-devouring snake, ouroboros ophis -
so that many more that come
(and come they will whether willing or unwilling),
and either chain to us
in shackles of either attracted
by our status of res cogitans
with keen interest in our works,
or likewise with apathy keep
us in hidden depths of lochs beyond
all care or concern - as simply
automated lived out care-free
contentment, not demanding us to
take centre stage, and indeed associate
with us more res vanus rather than
res cogitans, as easy come as easy
go due to man's numbering -
landlocked ably seeing the great seas
nimble at each man's bordering on tides
youth turn to old age with the hanging
klepsydra over each man's head:
like that ingenuity of bernard gitton;
for each will have to relinquish his
sway of the status of being a res cogitans
and claim the status of res vanus
(after all life is accomplished, the book-kept
wet ink of the words the end forever-more,
as words preceding the last have dried up
to worthy status of boredom and study
and gained entitlements of lost mr. but gained dr.):
so that many more will come in our stead,
but as i see it, this won't be hard -
relinquishing the status of a thinking thing:
since so many people still act petty and treat
thinking moronically: pyramid of homicide
and theft and all that, which jingles
for Mammon to give out displacing rewards
of coin neither gold or silver, but attired
with a figurehead of authority of gems
embedded in a crown, hidden in william
the conqueror's white tower.

In an early morning dream I was sat next to a woman on a train whom I fell in love with.

Her captivating smile and red hair are but a few figments of that dream that yet linger in my memory.

Entranced by a conversation I cannot recall, and infatuated with a woman I cannot picture, I eagerly fall asleep at night, moronically hoping she'll come again.

What I do remember of our dreamly encounter I cherish with great pleasure. I cannot help but feel paradoxically content yet bothered by the realization my most recently cherished conversation is one I have, in fact, never had.

In an early morning dream she came, and for the briefest of moments filled my world with warmth and endless curiosity. And just like the ether from which she came, she withered into inexistence upon my awakening.

Adali offered Father’s stranger more wine.
We all knew he’d accept.
On our way to the woods though,
Someone stepped upon my dress.
“Oh Yseult,”
Conradine cried.
“Stop imagining things”
They didn’t think I was right.
The trees were beautiful every time
We walked the paths by the midnight moon.
The first was silver,
The second gold,
But we all loved diamonds the most.
Again I could feel someone following:
The trees never made a sound.
“Oh Yseult,”
Ediline hushed.
“You really are too old for these games.”
They didn’t think I was right.
I tugged on Galiana’s left glove-
We’d always been close-
Thinking she’d believe me this once.
But the boys in the boats were too tempting for us.
I told Oskar there was something wrong,
The boat was too heavy for him to row.
“Oh Yseult,”
Irmuska gasped.
“You didn’t even eat today!”
They didn’t think I was right.
Within minutes we arrived
At our sanctuary, our dancing hall.
We laced up our shoes
But I watched the boat groan and rock.
“Oh Yseult,”
Katchen teased.
“That’s just the tide pulling it in.”
They didn’t think I was right.
Hours passed as I danced
With my Oskar.
However, the sinking feeling
We’d been caught lingered.
“Oh Yseult,”
Magnild snorted.
“Your delusioning is quite perturbing.”
They didn’t think I was right.
Oskar took me away
To the side of the room.
He knew my shoes had worn straight through.
I watched out the corner of my eye
A golden chalice float away.
“Oh Yseult,”
Otylia reprimanded.
“Your childish ways are far too much!”
They didn’t think I was right.
The brothers rowed me
And my sisters back home.
Kissing us each goodnight,
They returned to their boats
Thinking we’d see them tomorrow.
I heard a creaking sound behind us.
Once again I tried to warn them.
“Oh Yseult,”
Rille rolled her beautiful eyes.
“Please stop being stupid for once.”
They didn’t think I was right.
We returned to our bedroom
Without further commotion.
When we arrived though
Our secret door would not close.
“Oh Yseult,”
Tieran chided.
“I know you’re youngest, but you can’t be that weak.”
They didn’t think I was right.
Father’s stranger was right in his bed
Snoring loud as inhumanly possible.
I knew it couldn’t be real
So I tried to reason with my sister’s again.
“Oh Yseult,”
Viheke yawned.
“Go to sleep now, you’re far too tired.”
They didn’t think I was right.
When the morning arrived
Father threw open our door.
The anger and happiness
Flowed from him moronically.
In his left hand were branches
Silver, gold, and diamond.
In his right
Was Oskar’s chalice.
Behind him was Father’s stranger
Smug and pleased.
He requested Adali’s hand in marriage,
Just as Father promised.
“Oh Yseult,”
My eleven sisters cried in unison.
“We should have listened!”
They didn’t think I was right.

Hailed as a hero to all
That don't know him
A harvestman, of porcelain
Collective picture of me
Identify & catch the fall

Dealing in lies
The joker has no hand
No full house, empty pair
Cards are for tricks
Slight of hand, baffled eyes

Desiccating words
That dry my soul
Spat out, shat out
From my own mouth
A truth? not unheard

Shackled myself down
Bound in false words
Ironically , moronically
Still have the key
Locked solid within a frown

Even a cactus flowers to show
YOU, the beauty inside
An ocean, not shallow pool
Self improving, pretty mind
Dull light, now aglow

Something's are best reflected in your eyes, not your lies

I am an irony.
The medics often call it
an emergency.

Though I assume, the poets
would argue and claim it
a masterpiece.

To call it as it is,
I prefer the term
tragedy.

Moronically,
I am a walking clock
ticking until

the time is up.
A camera clicking
until the film is out.

I am a miracle
and ten.
An excuse for a daughter.

A waste of a warm seat.
Extra space in the luggage,
never a carry-on.

I am the embodiment
of sand
drifting through the desert.

A pebble stuck in a shoe.
A wet sock with a hole at the end.
As inconvenient as may be,

I am
a testimony.
A promise

waiting to be met.
A memory
that hasn’t happened yet.

circles my brain all day
it is the planets to my solar system's sun
every statement ends with a question mark
I JUST LOVED PLAYING SOCCER?
talking in voices
which others categorize as filtered out noises
left me to be shunned in the corner
yet i sit in the middle of the room
moronically genius ideas i have
yet my stupidity helps me laugh at all my flaws
except the flaw of being stupid

happy :o

preternaturally longish grey hair,
acid-yellow buckteeth hanging from the
slathered lipstick of your thin upper lip.
(a wigged version of Billy Corgan).
fixed into a moronically concentrated pucker,
failing at the illusion of fullness.
while garnishing an apartment with the
paraphernalia of a free spirit too stale to beat
to death, a just-so of obsessively repeated
finishing touches.
the remanent rise of ******-***** coziness,
niche/nook/now--you, no...wind doesn't like you.
the very thought of your current routine is as
flotsam as the passion-**** you once dealt.