"pirolell" poems
I like walking to see the man.
When the trees are stiff
and the clouds are glowing,
i take the high road up
to where creeks are flowing.
To where panthers sing, in
the darkest nights, to where shadows
are pythons and liken bites
when i can i see the man
i feel something inside me
bland, but beautiful,
second hand,
like a magic spell
in possum land, goannas
lizards, private lynx,
and kissen wizards
hybrid shrinks
when iv got a problem,
or my eye lid kinks
i follow the road
up to the skyward links.
Theres three roads,
once you arrive there well
theres one that will take
you up a plywood cell
and in this you scream
“take me to the dream
mr Pirolell!”
And if he hears you
in time youl smell
a clear blue gel, or feel a tear brew.
Well that is a bridge to enter your dreams.
—
The next road, the second, leads to
a humble abode with a pleasant
decadent essence. Inside this are
creatures that are big and
small, hairy and airy
ones, some are fairies holden
up librarians with scary guns
some are twisted toads with
bowed blisted noads
living life in a dark pit
solarium.
You must confront these
creatures to reach
the immortal bays
of the Pirolell beaches.
And here you will
be taught by the teacher
of teachers.
And that is the man i
walk to see.
—
The third road
you must tame an
insane hawk to walk
to the magic chalk board.
The bird is wanting to
**** those that wish
to write with the sword or quill, in spite
of it guarding its lord that is still.
If you can tame the hawk
than what ever you question
on the board with chalk will speak aloud
proud monstrous way,
and will discover all that is heavenly.
And youl realise that the man is fantasy.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC