Postponed dreams, present in absence,
stalked by slithering necessity, lives simply
for a never to be timelessness.
With stubborn insolence and forgetful impatience,
the destitute wanderer stumbles into a tavern,
looking for a drink,
looking for a hit,
looking for a brawl,
looking to be numbed,
so unconscious imagining can begin.
Passing the day, writing away,
fabricating truth to conceal a natural lie;
moan, groan, complain;
dead ears of the divine will hear none of it,
moan, groan, complain;
Daddy doesn't give a shit,
moan, groan, complain;
justice is blind, beauty plastic.
Production levels, consumption spikes;
supply and demand, the Word of God,
foundational truth for the falsified believer,
fed illusion until satisfied,
shuffling off the mortal coil,
to await heights unknown to man.
Corpses grounded into dust;
dispensed with by the sweet kiss
of the summer wind,
transporting powdery misery,
from west to east, north to south;
good people suffer from
precarious truths
and sustainable deceptions.
Emotional, devestated, weak,
and miserable,
you tuck your tail and run;
awaiting their measured response,
their calculated action;
my goodness we're rational,
at least you're trying,
as I tail off...
...a voice echoes, heard by no one....
...heard by nothing.
Nothing is heard. Nothing is said.
God is dead, long live the king,
the king is dead, long live the Word,
the Word is dead, long live the spectre,
the spectre lives...greetings my Lord.
With blatant cruelty,
death declares sovereignty over
the bubbly illusions of plastic existence;
the pronouncement is denied
by the shape-shifting chameleon,
modern champion, most limited of specialists,
who manipulates light and shade,
to project an image of God,
against a cave wall.
Light, let there be light...
rant on deluded meanderer,
for the knave can stumble upon courage,
provided the right strings are pulled.
Rant on!
Rant on about highest things!
Rant on about sacred things!
Rant on about vain and stupid things!
Rant on until a loud night descends;
listen, listen, for a gentle thud,
a silent demise;
the shadows disappear,
and you are sheparded into darkness.
Merely insignificant,
wiped away without consequence,
merely part of frescos of blood,
bone and sinew,
held together by a common suffering:
"Life is but a series of errors,
repeated again and again,
frustrating desires
for paradise most pure."
Darkness gives way to darkness,
obscuring a bestilled, quiet, inexpressible,
heart filled with anguish,
turned away from an extinguished light;
an infinite postponement ceases,
a fantasy cancelled.
