Skip to main content

sub-queen of sub-heaven

she gladly and thoroughly forgave the devil
his defiance, his arrogance, his irresistible lies
but she couldn’t forgive her bible-thumping dad
his lie of never lying, who could do that? 

now, isn’t life just playing?
role playing, cos playing, foreplaying
playing with God’s rejects’ pliable perceptions
so they can adore you while being duped?

with a daily air kiss to her daddy
she enjoys her life of God’s creation
the same way the Devil does
adored by creation of her own
the gods of loot and goddesses of prurience
superior by blackmail
grand by slander
magnificent in sweeping under the rugs
gods and dogs of sub-heaven
they will not spoil their fun
by accepting their God-given names
they take what looks good on others

when your everyday coffee from the corner deli suddenly becomes a punishment for some unconfessed sins of some unknown unconfessor and the counter person hands you this sentence without one word and the inner inferno of bad taste sours your day...

how serious can you be about your coffee? they say
well, it can make my day
while i chip away through the labyrinth of calcite thoughts
build by the self-proclaimed gods
breakers of boundaries, forgers of chains
speaking earthworms, thinking knives
eating you with their predatory eyes
beating you with their castanet-like mouths
nothing can be serious, i say
not even when they invade and destroy
as they believe they must
for their beliefs are but a sinister decoy
of the Lawless one, their protector
whose unlimited greed drowns wills and wits
powered by the hundred-layer deceit
and pride of artificial magnitude
of pleasure heights
how serious is any of that?

why did she believe that there is a spirit
in everything made by human hands?
even in her everything bagel?
some everything spirit?
(also holding up the cement statue we call by her name)
in only minutes of time
in spite of multitude of fake laughs
and undercover true sorrow
the love and fear of this edible delight
overweighs her craving for clairvoyance
with a deluge of fat
it beats paper, scissors and rock altogether
will her purple aura help her with that?

Popular posts from this blog

long stormy night

 one mississippi ...a bitter star is falling down... two mississippi ...I argued with the devil and i won... three mississippi ...and when trees don't anymore let the violins speak to me... kaboom! familiarity with falsehood is not a stairway to heaven your head may look as fine as gold but your feet are made of clay nothing but dust under the power of the Rock that fills the earth how will you not fall? you are but a murder of crows meticulously glued into a grandiose idol by the promise of fame within the will-less bundles of muscles in the network of shame blinded by the unpromised luxury heights inflamed by the gluey years of resentment of rejected lovers beggars of love, however misunderstood and their idols of age defiance and lust downgraded by the glowing rectangles with their images of envy betrayed by the happily hand-clapping crowds of fake jesuses and fake madonnas by neurotic parents of monkeys evolving into crafty profit maker...

iron-y

why burn the bridge? so that no wounded birds could live under it to keep their wounds alive your irony is like sulfur “no” is a burning word takes the iron rod giver to say it right they undo every right and fight for every wrong like that recalled letter of apology drop-dead bird mockingly unsent ungone, unknowing of its power ironic like dried sunflower on a blue chalkboard the art of death reigns in their hearts there is only defiance of dessicated flowers  between acknowledgment of rain  given in the right season and the first hydrating sip of life as it were to be fractions matter, splits of seconds are life ages of stubborn magma buildup can crumble in a blink of an eye, when you see how many grand personas brake down between saying thank you and being grateful always

don't pray for me

when the thieves pray for more loot, who can hear them? in heaven or in hell? let the wind know, let the wind know if you forget your name the wind will still blow your thoughts away when the whores pray for more wages, who can hear them? whose job is it to care? in heaven or in hell? let the clouds know, let the clouds know if you forget your name the rain will wet your hair anyway please, love me not the teddy bears and dolls are all asleep now this factory of dreams is a delusion there is no path through the house of terrors the neon signs were all lying tell me what pay is worth playing a nameless agent a role with so many angry lines in a play called "I wish I were rich" befriended and adored only by the three-headed snake of familiar spirit? [weeping is heard in the clouds but the streets are dry] please, love me not when the hands tired of work and hearts hardened by adversity rise in thanksgiving prayer why is the snake still speak...