Time is a half-forgotten song.
Each softly sung,
then,
disappearing
note;
is an alarming, eternal reminder
of being secondary
to a larger symphony.
Errors made in haste
din short like catchy,
hooking choruses.
Whilst unmade amends
become musical lessons
that echo;
lengthy, lecturing, lifelong – laments.
Yes, time is a half-f…
Innocence violently
punctured;
penetrated,
by the seemingly;
pious,
“preacher-teacher”.
The irony is never
missing;
when finding out,
for real,
the encountered
misery;
in the book of Job,
im-
maturely.
Keeping the faith;
through gritted,
infant
mandible.
A cross to bear
that bore a hole.
Apart – lost from
a heart, and, soul.
The day you came;
to geld a foal.
Invaded deep;
with devil’s goal.
You tried to break
my spirit
by taking away
my virtue.
Lucifer rendered
you complicit;
knowing I would
never hurt you.
And, through all the
hardship, fear, and, pain.
All the anguish
that I live through.
All the times I could have
given up, and, gone insane.
I should hate you, and, want you;
dead.
But, better yet,
I forgive you.
Shifting the gear,
clutching at nostrils.
Eight hours;
of undulating, pedalled pleasure.
Communally imbibing Christ’s
blood, like, twelve apostles.
Resurrection; found in a spirit’s –
double measure…
A snifter of hope –
blown into a smoky bottle.
Three graveyard shifts later,
the zombie’s bottleneck is throttled.
Followed by –
three days of manic, forsaken terror.
The fear imprisoned mind;
crucified; by pedantic Aristotle…
Painting the frown;
Dread.
A beer-goggled gaze –
locks onto a clown’s ruby-red smile.
Brushstrokes of panic,
turn the landscape;
a greyer shade of lead.
Judah’s lion, and, lioness;
have already been defiled.
The fledgling doves;
have found heavenly peace –
as; vertically, they have fled…
But, for, we – desolate few;
escape is futile.
Eden has gone.
From, ethereal garden, to, shed.
All trees, plants,
flowers, bushes,
and, wooden panels,
have been collectively burnt, and, shred.
By pasty, secateur-ing devils – that beguile.
Who ask for details,
to stop, and, search,
the saintly, for a while…
Cuff, beat, confine, and, brutalise,
without proving need; the “lowerbred”.
In their eyes,
a twinkling morning star,
cast us down.
But, righteous children; always rise.
Ascending high above –
Babylon’s screaming, burning lies.
Losing blueish, busied noses,
to spite;
in the face of systematic –
destruction, and, denial.
the puppeteer; has scaly, reptilious skin,
a charming, colourful, cataclysmic chameleon,
with eyes of, devouring, gluttonous jealousy,
like glowing, bite-sized, emeralds,
the puppet-strings, that are pulled,
are made of, flaccid human backbones,
spineless, and, apathetic, docile, and, weak,
always easy, to bend, shape, and manipulate,
the puppets; are twisted, in a daily spin,
forever unfurling, and, falling from favour; like disgraced comedians,
or, top-storey, tumbling clerics, guilty of heresy,
their shelf-lives, are; fugitive; ephemeral,
the pre-packaged, chicken-y cattle, are; disjointed, culled,
mooing, clucking; moo-ucking; those unrelaxed tones,
soundbites of; tinned laughter, canned speech,
eager to unoffend, a sterile escapade, veiled by a fake-crusader’s cape,
the audience; never looks up, from their, feeding troughs,
staring, ravenous eyes, and, mawing, myopic mouths,
transfixed on; oven-ready propaganda,
an amuse-bouche, of; punch, and, judy politics,
succulent headlines, curried scapegoats,
a diet of; regurgitated news cycles,
each garden-variety brain, is, washed, boiled, and, mashed,
then, cannibalised, and, ingested, by the, frenzied, factory-fed,
the puppeteer’s; plotlines are misleading oft,
making polar norths, into, cancerous tropic souths,
teaching true-falsehoods, that reveal, and, cover, the lingua franca,
with, tongued wands, that cast, polyglottal tricks,
selling ice, to; Inuits, and, Amazigh; Saharan raincoats,
making a play, of religion, and, a cat’s paw; the idol,
the final act is here, box office takings, are; sealed, and, stashed,
as, the audience; counts sheep, daydreaming, of lying in fantasy’s bed,
but, ostensibly…
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the show is, almost, finished,
and,
inevitably, before, the final curtain,
you beg for…
La Fin.
Inevitably, your moments of; heartache, and, jubilation, sorrow, and, raucous laughter, will be momentary brushstrokes, of humanising colour, on an eternal, universal, canvas. It does not matter, if, post-use, your sapient, vehicular, corpus is; burnt, buried, or, embalmed. Every; thought, behaviour, and, action, made, in all conscience, must be accounted for, on your soul’s departure, from Gaia.
Just as, an ancient, Egyptian heart, must weigh, equal to, or, less than, the sacred feather of Ma’at. And, St. Peter’s keys, will only allow entrance, to the righteous, at the pearly gates, of the kingdom of heaven. The bearer of the soul, has, not only the mystical responsibility, but, the metaphysical obligation, and, duty, to be; morally and intrinsically: good.
Goodness is paramount to a clean conscience, and, more importantly, a clean soul. Spiritual; cleanliness, wholesomeness, and, goodness, are imperative, in order for the soul to continue, peacefully, on it’s supranatural journey, along the Milky Way, and, onto, the perpetual realms of yonder.
And, when, all is said, and, done, as your life, in all it’s ubiquity, magically, propels before you – like a feature film, or, flip-book, composed of; your natural essence, transfigured by, the shifting sands of time – will you be pleased with, how you; formed opinions, treated others, and, lived your life?
Or, will your soul, be burdened by; sin, loathing, and, regret? Forced to recount, every; hateful decision, every misinformed opinion, and, every missed opportunity, to form healthy human, and, spiritual bonds?
Your familial bloodline, and, genetics, may carry forth, or, they may not – that is, ultimately, out of your control. Yet, your opportunity to contribute, as many beautiful brushstrokes, to this; galactic masterpiece, as your life permits, is perfectly, within your grasp. And, in contributing with good; heart, mind, and, conscience, you enable your soul’s interstellar travel, to the stars; smooth, succinct, and, better yet, truly astounding.
All bonds, of virtue, that bind, righteously, will endure armageddon – not only, sororal, and, fraternal.
Your body, will grow, languid, and, old, but, if wholesome, your soul, will spring eternal.
And, while your body, may be, lost at sea, cremated in flames, or buried within Earth’s crust.
Your before, your presence, and, your beyond, are, permanently crafted, by the moulded creation, of life, in stardust.
I often ponder,
fishing, for that
ever, evasive, iridescent
salmon, called, Knowledge,
and, though, my line, hook and rod,
are true,
the truth, I yearn for, is, always..
over yonder,
because..
the victors on this planet,
always, hold the pen,
that scripts the present,
and, their school of thought,
is not, an Ichthyological college,
but, rather, a pseudohistory, a fallacy, regurgitated, from evil minds,
by ignorant mouths, to innocent pods.
I smell something fishy, don’t you?
You learn thoroughly,
to hold your tongue,
to earn only currency,
do right, not wrong,
do not question,
ignorance enlarged,
leave circumspection,
to those in charge,
believe the lies,
believe the truths,
believe those, that deny,
your own abuse,
you have a choice,
you have your freedom,
you have a voice,
you can go and see them..
The knowledge, you now, so desperately, seek, has, finally, been unredacted..
And, when, “too little”, arrives, that, little bit, “too late”..
You come to realise..
You had a choice.
You had your freedom.
You had a voice.
Look.. there they are..
in the mausoleum.
I, Myself. Constantine.
A trailblazer. Making my mark,
until tremors, quaking, and, a long lived aftershock. Got trapped, got sick, now,
making my way home; to Torment.
Manifested;
off-track, lost, unfound, raging, bitter, twisted.
And, sick. Obviously.
Disorientated, tranquil tornadoes,
of, marauding memories,
revolve statically;
sarcastically whirling,
with the sincerest, of all, ironies;
like a Dervish, riding a languid carousel,
a Dervish, named;
‘Constantine’.
The inert twisters,
carry, and, cast –
concealed emotions,
that are; born to seek death,
that are; created to destroy.
The camouflaged
saliences, are;
re -visited,
re -worn,
re -vealed;
‘In the stitching –
a khirqa of shame, whispers, “guilt survives, long after, the dead, have been mourned.” As sorrow seeps, from, a blood-soaked; hood, cuffs, and, sleeves – where cloying, bloodthirsty tarmac, bore it’s teeth, causing shudders. Devouring all escapes, to salvation.
And, after grasping, deep-down,
in those, endless, cloak pockets, Mercy, was found slain. Smothered, by iniquity, concrete, rocks and rubble, as compassion is, demolished by dark, anguished,
traumatic silences.’
Uncontrollable
obedience – stagnantly spins,
and, turns, soothing provocations,
into, a, swooner’s consciousness.
Hushed screeches vomit, teasing and tormenting; to mutilate…
To massacre;
a begging, bruised, exhausted, inner-sanctum.
A colourless draining.
The colour is fading,
from psyche’s cheeks,
a liquidating; of shady pulp,
of soft, once radiant,
rainbow spattered, but, now, only;
grey matters.
I, Myself. Constantine.
A soggy, battered, quivering, hasbeen. An already; blazed trail.
Long forgotten.
Lying beneath,
a superego’s ocean-jungle undergrowth, where there, once was, a long, plumed, dove-white robe.
Overgrown, crestfallen, and, un-phren-dly;
lying beneath,
the forsaken waves, of; lost seas, past shocks and, cruel, convulsive, inclemencies.
Escaping,
bitter seas,
of, slippery grips,
betwixt,
waves of gritted,
inhumane hands;
are; ferocious tides,
of, untimely;
porous – reveries,
scattered notions,
of buckets and spades,
abandoned;
castles of sand.
Amongst,
searing footsteps,
of, downtrodden,
Atlas-burdened,
vanishing – caravans;
yearns; a purpose,
however, unlikely;
changing tact,
or, track?
Parting seas, or, ways?
Searching for answers,
or, the truth?
Fearing God, or, man?
Eviscerating,
the pot-bellied,
beach,
with hurled,
long-ranging bolt,
of, Zeus’,
electrifying brand;
galvanis-ing;
crack,
and, crash,
sublime-ly;
exploding;
bashful,
pock-marks,
on the coastline’s;
dusty naval,
then, birthing
mishaps,
of, misshapen,
yet, fierce; fulgurite,
a serendipitous,
by-product,
of a,
vengeful,
God’s
plan.
By flipping 999, urgently,
Babylon is reluctantly uncovered,
the oppressor arises, fervently,
delivered, sealed and signed,
to your doorstep, hurriedly,
by an Amazonian, droning runner.
The online quarry, scurried-ly,
is quietly, quickly mined,
for data, to stone you, brutally,
lapidating mankind in the gutter,
serpents, demons; morph – mutably,
atop infernal; BlackRock, undefined.
Devilish hands, are biting; toothily,
cloven-hoofed and snarling glovers,
stealing and swallowing, with impunity,
every light that longs to shine.
Proxy-wars – created; “legally”,
a Capital design,
the Red Shields, gleam greedily,
in earthly echelons of upper,
when you seek the truth, objectively,
then humbly you will find,
that freedom’s fight is lost, detained, and, unsympathetically, smothered.
The corpse of; Lady Liberty,
lies; unequivocally undermined,
Her death is a lesson, in; futility,
for everyone that suffers.
Mutineers must unshackle, mentally,
from this global garrison;
where ligatured propaganda binds,
before emancipating, gently,
those divided, conquered, agonising;
Others.
So, gouge and remove,
that omnipotent; all-seeing eye,
in an unblinkered revolution;
blind and blur, be raging,
rise up, rebel, intensely.
Cause a prophetic fratricide,
ending ever-gazing, watchful, sight,
by young sibling’s – insurgency,
overseeing the, sovereign fraternities, final supper.
Improve the vision of evolution,
erase those deplored, despotic rulers,
descry a world regime obliterated;
a blazing orbit, cremating,
the incarnate, robotic, abomination, we call our; Bigger Brothers.
All the sheep have been pacified;
penned in, pinned down, passed out,
as their coats are roughly shorn.
The wool is pulled over; passive eyes,
skewing views, from amassing doubt,
preventing a herd from being warned.
The foxes’ cunning; salivates,
at the very thought of consuming;
a lamb, without a wary flock.
A sly, auld plan, to isolate,
with shorn coat, ‘put on’; for grooming,
makes a veiled ovine, of the fox.
Though the lamb, naively trusts,
this shape-shifting, deceptive, con,
there’s an unsettled feeling within,
an inkling, a notion, that revolts, disgusts,
whenever this Reynard, speaks upon,
their analogy, and, how they’re akin.
The fox, lured the lamb, into the woods,
the Merino, extended fox’s journey,
ridiculing Reynard’s valor; lost,
across the road the yearling trudged,
being followed; by crushing mercy,
as, crimson lorry wheel, and, sheepish precocity,
had alas, finally, outfoxed the fox.
poorman'sdreams 