"trances" poems
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…
Pipit sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
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My pulse keeps time with the leaky rusted faucet of my bath tub.
Tiny ripples, like cold shockwaves through my body,
wake me
from deadly trances.
My streamofthoughts race the fan blades on my ceiling.
Eyes chasing like mice on wheels,
retreating to
nowhere fast.
Pebbles thrown, bouncing off well walls like your voice.
Gently it screams, like whispers in silence, “These things take time”.
Never reaching
the bottomless black.
Just white noise,
a sea foam screen.
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
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i just really hate the term puppy love.
makes me sound like i'm way over my head
simply caught up with the clouds high above
and not gonna stop myself till i'm dead
rather, it's a cherry blossom romance
beautiful, brilliant and illuminating
sweet and pleasant, putting me into trances
a fire in me so strongly burning.
i hate the word crush with burning passion
makes this love feel fragile and soft-boiled
i know myself well, there's no confusion
at that point in time, my heart's fully-booked
let's call it a sakura rendezvous:
where raw, feral love comes into full bloom.
burning bright, though eventually withering:
'twas an embodiment of maturity.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
.
*Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.*
© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)
James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion
Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency
Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams
Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions
Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled
In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
********** with the intangible essence
To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance
Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
I have wearied of grand romances
Of deep sighs and swooning trances
Of doting gentlemen’s advances
And all manner of courtship play
I am tired of love confessions
And of dizzied, dazed professions
And of unrestrained obsessions
I grow sicker day by day
I once dreamed of adoration
Went quite mad for veneration
Laughing, flirting with temptation
The queen in Camelot
The lonely, lovely Guinevere
Dainty-masked with girlish fear
But when King Arthur wasn’t near
Dreaming of Sir Lancelot
These days I want no noble knight
Despite my seeming helpless plight
I wish to set myself aright
And tread upon the ground
Yet here I am, pedestal-high
Too close to the dazzling sky
As my life keeps passing by
And boys keep running round
I’ve let myself grow much too proud
Drew up arrogance from the crowd
Heard the cheering, bright and loud
The queen in Camelot
And though I had my faithful Sir
Still my heart was all astir
With flying fancies, all a blur
For Guinevere and Lancelot
These fantasies have grown too old
I’d rather let my bed grow cold
For I have wearied of being told
“You are mine to keep”
Men have tired me to the core
Left me sad and sick and sore
And have turned into such a chore
And I’d much rather sleep
What blasphemy for a maiden fair
To toss such doting to the air
To turn away without much care
Though queen in Camelot
But I have withered, I have tired
Felt as if my brain’s been mired
And find not Arthur much desired
Nor dashing Lancelot
Is it so bad to want respite
From endless longing, day and night?
This constant charm becomes too trite
With ever staler tone
I only wish to rest a while
Recover from incessant guile
Forget the weight of lovers’ trial
And simply be alone
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
This is my favorite dress.
I bought it from a store I managed on Haight Street in San Francisco when I was 24.
It was a sample, one of a kind and I felt like a fairy in it.
It required no bra and I required no restrictions. We were a good match for each other.
Some might say it looks delicate as the lace flutters around my thighs, but, I know. This dress sat on sidewalks chain smoking cigarettes in the Castro. It danced in drug induced trances with new and old friends where we lived like sardines.
This dress moved to NEw York City with me and we endured cat-calls and harsh words. A casting director called me plain in this dress. He explained, to a room full of people, wasn’t it amazing how my talent shown so bright while I was so very plain. And as I walked along side Madison Square Park I saw myself shining in car reflections and my dress told me I was beautiful, and I knew it was right, and that man was insane.
In New Orleans I was invited to a party and I went because I didn’t know anyone. I was New. I wore my favorite dress and as I put it on I thought of the cold California beach breeze grazing my underwear throwing up my skirt, I thought of that mad man calling me plain, and I thought how scary it is to go to this party alone. I rode my bike in the humid air and I felt my pink slip clutch my waist. I felt safe. I sang a song out load. I felt like me. And when I got there you were there. You looked at me like I wasn’t just my dress or what was under it. You told me one truth and one lie and it made me smile. And now when I turn to my favorite dress like an old friend, for comfort or confidence, you are in its history too.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
“No more—no more—no more”—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams!
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o’er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
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Over the hills,
From mountain to mountain,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Playing his pipes,
And drinking the wine,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
A cave in the hills,
The heart of his fair Arcadia,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Demeter he found,
And then he told Zeus,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
In fair Arcadia,
He stood feeding his hounds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Artemis came,
And he gave her ten pairs,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Visions and dreams,
In trances and dances of ecstasy,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Fair Apollo came,
And learned prophecy at his feet,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Bragging and boasting,
He plays his pipes and he dances,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Apollo comes challenging,
And the mountain god liked lyres,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Echo he loved,
He sang and he wooed,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Scorning his love,
His panic tore her to shreds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Youngest of gods,
But oldest by far,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Father of all,
And forever the Child,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
Hovering pass the city lights
my mind lies awake
full of the psychedelic treats you offer
latched on the various trances I felt
I make sure it was you
and not the demon who awoke
as a ball of thunderous energy
feeding the insatiable desire for vices and sin
As the body grows lapse
we know things are about to fall apart
leaving us starving for more
and voiding the reality we're in
Our minds retry to go back
while our souls will forever be lost
in the wonder provided by the mysterious ghost
of acid and MDMA
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
I've always been somewhat Autistic,
ADHD
too
More than a little manic
and
OCD
I've had the fever
Occupying me
I've heard the murderous rage
And it was me
I have had my periods of Schizophrenia
Paranoia
Psychic warfare
in the ether
He's looking at me
I keep looking at him
Wondering why he's looking at me
I've got that DID
Going into trances
The poet he writes these tomes,
Waking up in strange places
That PTSD
Get startled very easily
Anxiety and depression
Are you kidding?
What's a day without 'em?
The vice is nice
Abundance to depletion,
The parking lot walk
Polysubstance abuse
has had it's use
Fetishes phillias
Electric brain all light up
Run amok
Decades of misery
Decades of mastery
Had them all
A walking DSM
That would be me
Everything which is human inside you is inside me
Hanging out with
the human condition
my old friend and me
Trying one more time
to figure it all out,
one more time.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations, characterizations
imitations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
of
dreams and trances.
Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.
Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of
courage.
Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
or
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.
You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.
You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
and
freedom cannot be far behind...
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Hints of maple kiss each of
your highlander grog fingertips.
The smell of her shampoo
pierces & permeates throughout
your living room, lingering still
to this day, on your pillow.
You told her you'd make a perfume
that smells like the car heater on
long drives home for Christmas.
Aromas of her laundry detergent
still live in your spine
like LSD.
When you turn your neck a
certain way you fall back
into trances of her & 1997.
Vick's Vaper Rub, NyQuil
Cough Syrup breath, with
a 104 degree fever. She
sobbed when her last
sea monkey died
You called her cartographer.
Intricate trails of herself connecting
each board of your apartment floor.
Charted long ago when her
candle still burned scents of warmth.
The art of burning,
a front the fire place of
maple logs where you told her
to "Let go."
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
The it upstairs
thinks it's God,
But it isn't.
Man or Woman,
It comes in a thousand genders.
It's only has one mind,
Its own pleasure,
The power of Now,
Well, that's what it's all about.
The cost,
Well, that's no problem.
It begs
It borrows
It steals
It pleads
It lies to you straight faced.
If you bleed,
When the consequences are paid,
It says, "Not me"
"We'll deal with it later"
"One more time"
"One more round"
"One more rodeo"
"One last time for the road."
It's pretty smug
most of the time,
Can't move your
arms or legs,
But whips up anxiety
if
you say, "No. "
It'll show you resistance is futile.
Though it only hangs
around
for little while,
It'll let you know.
It speaks to you
in the third person voice -
You deserve it
You need it
You've been so good.
It'll talk you into trances
strange self-destructive dances,
Twist you upside down,
Inside out.
It ain't God,
Somebody needs to talk to it soon,
Let it know,
These days of running the show
are numbered,
There's more to life than this slumber
Numbness has had its abundance,
Talk to it soon
While there's still time.
A whisper, though, says something different,
"How's about
one more
time. "
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Drums in the darkness: a jungle clearing
fetish masks and gibbering lips
grass skirts, headdresses, face-paint leering
nocturnal trances, gyrating hips.
A medicine man, by spirits possessed,
grunts while the powers invade his mind;
the dancers shriek, as if distressed
by a presence in shadow not yet defined.
It’s only Rock’n’Roll…
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
I don't blame people for hating me
I hate myself sometimes
I just hope they give me a chance
I give myself chances
Until I start giving glances
And move through playful prances
Others witness my glancing dances
And knock me out my ****** trances
I wonder what I am
My eyes look at my hands
The wise watch the sands
Of time that slowly count down
Until we're not tyranny bound
In this empire of circular hate
Trapped on this circular crate
It gets smaller as we push inward
When the solution is the inverse
These ideologies keep us from expansion
Like those that knock me out my trances
But please give humanity more chances
A murderer stands before his judge
The judge says:
Death...
Why do you weep?
It's just one word
My sympathy isn't reached
For I am the herd
The murderer responds:
Sorry I must weep
These tears I can't keep
When that word sums up my future and my past
It evokes memories and desires engraved in brass
As a society we're constantly filling ourselves
As a species we're constantly killing ourselves
When knowledge is a sphere
That needs to be maximized
We need to look in the mirror
And continue asking why
But we must start in the middle
To fill up the sphere
Until we can solve this riddle
And I can keep tears
And we can be peers
Who live on this sphere
With nothing to fear
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC
[Dedicated to Horace Sheridan-Bickers]
A vision of flushed faces, shining limbs,
The madness of the music that entrances
All life in its delirium of dances!
The white world glitters in the void, and swims
Through the infinite seas of transcendental trances.
Yea! all the hoarded seed of all my fancies
Bursts in a shower of suns! The wine-cup brims
And bubbles over; I drink deep hymns
Of sorceries, of spells, of necromancies;
And all my spirit shudders; dew bedims
My sight -these girls and their alluring glances!
Their eyes that burn like dawn's lascivious lances
Walking all earth to love -to love! Life skims
The cream of joy. If God could see what man sees,
(Intoxicating Nellies, Mauds and Nances!)
I see Him leave the sapphrine expanses,
The choir serene and the celestial air
To swoon into their sacramental hair!
1.9k
.
I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Calmly bound of tempted drizzled fears
Slow dancing on the desperate dying wind
Placing endless hope against the flow
This does come
beyond iron gates of broken trances
to sing
undying wishes upon deaf ears
Fractured in meanings and senses known,
these wrinkles form a favored mask
Donned in apprehension of a wilted feeling
Sleek and slender, along a poisoned vine they grow
Challenging
in endless streams of sorted need
Stead fast
with chains of charmed tethered truth
Cartoon headstones with scribbled crayon names
cast darker shadows beneath the edges of sanity
Ripped and tattered these empty voices scream
my name in echoes bearing nothing more than seen
As I cry
my tears sprout wings and flee from my face
I fall to my knees
finding only the jagged earth to rest
Desires cling to the massive arbors of life
Dreams falter along a winding creviced cliff
Nothing laughs like the air upon my sorrowed face
and I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
Perhaps the most positively uninteresting tragedy
Is the story of flawed, impeded love.
For whenever I venture, strive, endeavor—
To exit my haven of solitary isolation
I’m devoid of any bravery.
Though I wish I could say
“People scare me! I don’t want to be judged
For things I cannot control,
For transgressions and loves
Methods, impairment, systems and failures
Despicable lies and harrowing truths
Cringeworthy trances and malicious propositions—
That’s the reason I tragically fear you!"
But such would be blatant lies.
For I am not a reticent sheep,
Not afraid of human, futile words
It’s not any judgement or hate I despise
It’s just that I can’t ever compromise
I’m so terrified of judging
Even in my mind
The people of the world
Precious brethren of my kind—
I don’t wish to hurt a weakling
Or a disgraceful abomination
Thus, I’ll isolate from anyone
For fear of impeding my love
Of all alive, of everyone.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
and these waves
of longing
are burning me
into stumbled
desert trances
as I crawl, parched
upon
earth that
sears and spears
my limbs
my inner organs,
once wet
with the fire
of my blood
now only
ashen embers
the very salt
of the sum of
my wounds
lacerated open -
barely held by
a secret tourniquet
wrapped tight, ******* me
in reverse tempest
and I clamor within my being
move in jolts,
like a voodoo dance
zombie girl
stuck in the hell
of no-woman's land
a landscape of spires
piercing me hot
making the sharpened path
dangerous for strangers
As for me,
I can only succumb to
their scalding roast
if I want to somehow
get out alive,
my skin charred
from that branding of insults
my heart scarred
from countless lashes
that your serpent's tongue
has inflicted upon me
This.
is not the pleasure
of being tethered
tender flesh teased
until writhing
This.
is not the grind
of earthen fire
and sky mixed
with underwater lava,
swarming cloistered whispers
into my brain temperatures
This.
is not the conflagration of
love seeds developing
into a ripe field
of the succulence of lustfruit
This.
Is just an
attempt
to wear down
the goddess in me
And to that
I say
No.
I turn the other cheek
to your barbed wire lies.
In the frequencies of the
next universe over,
an echo bursts into flames
rapidly oxidizing,
licking into
nourishment
the rebirth
of my
own
divinity
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
this is how god rocks his children
my body feels weighed down
pleasantly heavy
gravity takes over on my wrists,
my thighs, my ankles, my elbows
all of that is pulled to the ground, and my eyes.
tell me a story
about your brother and you.
a smile creeps to the side of my face
when you describe something
excuse me
i was just having a funny thought.
we burst out laughing
my eyes blissfully closed.
weighed down by angel dust
it can't possibly be owned by the sandman
at least, not this early.
lids closed
chin to chest
wild curly hair fallen around your face.
slowly and slowly
around my head turns with the beat.
it feels so peaceful.
my hair brushes against
my cheeks
forehead
shoulders
back
and i can feel every strand.
i feel on a higher plane
the puritians
the tribal trances
the 60s hippies
i'm on the same level now.
i see myself trying to leave my body.
i'm too grounded to project.
but i see the black sky dotted
with bright white stars
like im looking into the sky.
but now i'm flying into it.
i have no boundaries
no limits.
meditate.
i feel like i'm being rocked
like a child
a mother rocking her baby.
i feel like a giant hand cradles me
and rocks me in this circle.
so this is how god rocks his children.
this is how god rocks his children.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
*Her peals of laughter, gently rocks, wakes him up
takes away from a midnight dream's warm embrace,
one dream to the other, what she is up to, he feels bit cheated,
like many times before, bit weary of misleading senses,
they are friends of course, distractors too, if unaware of their penchant
Perking his ears he listens, wind whistling in the woods,
rain drops on leaves create sounds of soft laughter.
Every where she is, the nymph, the ethereal presence,
in dreams, in the spirited dance of clouds, in swirl of water
and waves, when the birds play flute from their perches,
in flights that seems meditative trances beyond mind.
She is tranquility incarnate, beauty that grabs mind's eyes
mother who consoles at the time of distress and pain.
The night is silent again, the rain clouds too left to rest
yellow clad moon peeps above the clouds, many gifts we
forget to enjoy, some times without being aware, one leaves*
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
I see her in the morning.
I think of her in the night.
And all the hours in between,
She enslaves my very sight.
Her shiny black hair
Is like silky waves of night.
Her deep blue eyes
Are portals of mysterious light.
Her smile is magnificent.
Her teeth are always glimmering.
Her body is phenomenal.
Her laughter is always ringing.
She has a corner office.
I have a corner store.
I await the moment every morning
When she opens up my door.
She is perfect
In every single way.
All she has to do
Is everything I say.
She's married with children.
I'm single with none.
She seems so intense,
But maybe she's the one.
She'll be here soon.
What do I do?
I've absolutely, positively
Fallen for Sue!
I'm a fool!
I've fallen into a trap.
Help me find my way.
Can you lend me a map?
She is intoxicating.
She's out of her mind.
She follows me home
And tries to be kind.
She rearranges my furniture.
She decorates my house.
She adores this little puppy
That looks like a mouse.
She whispers and gossips
And whistles and prances.
She sends everyone into
Their own kind of trances.
She tasted better
Than Blueberry wine.
But she sure did crush
This little heart of mine.
Written by: Andrew D. Robertson
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
I'm guilty of admiring my works and not others, that's what's silly about my self compassion dance
When the only thing I've got left is the narcissistic klaxon that my self-righteous ambulance horn trances
If it's killing me, Bukowski would be proud, because he loved his liquor, but he loved killing himself more
He'd say, **** your religion! Pour this! This will bring you closer to God!"
It's hard for an atheist to swallow, and to dabble in the tasting of sin,
But Jesus was famous for turning water into wine, with no grapes mashed or thinned
The shield of amaretto is strong and smooth
You can put your cruise control on if you feel amused and soothed
But in darker times it will make your feeling woozy and moved
But **** does it make you feel more like yourself
The you'est you can be, with impeccable speech craft and gentlemanly muse
Helps you pay the dues that you have abused in your passive seasonal attitudes
So what say ye Devine for thou'est darkest temptations, when you've created your own demons, hells, and abrasions
Seems like you're the one holding the power ***** of creation
Ye 'ol Devine ************
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC