This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Posts
among the hills of chamomile and the hills of heather under which the romeos and desdemonas were buried, for ages of rough windy weather there lived a seasoned comedy troupe skilled at praising heavens for their able mouths for the faint promise of power as long as the air is filled with words with well rehearsed lines and plentiful laughs [ never wonder why any words of truth in this neighborhood can only fall like dry chickpeas on a tin roof of a doghouse where a family of blind chihuahuas lives of course, there will be much barking ] the comedy troupe performed daily in the amphitheater in the valley where the audience was accommodated in a mile long, double-sided sofa encircling the stage the sofa's comfort was made entirely of everything ever swept under the rugs by the law enforcement impersonators who bet their lives on secrecy and yet unknowingly expected a rain of silver bullets releasing t...
in a place of snow and arias a hunt for furry and feathery thoughts goes on and a command for an oven with full seething pots is given while winter keeps the watch and the thirst for blood seeps through the forests driving wolves and hounds to fury to blood, to torn flesh, to howls of victory or death and the reward taken raw or broiled death taken lightly, life murderously enjoyed with iron teeth the pots are filled, without a doubt the arias keep soaring and the guests of honor revel in the accidental aftermath socrates, that ugly socrates buried under the cherry-colored snow artfully painted by the hunting game with red of deer blood and yellow of hound’s pee worry that will never be like a poor cardinal bird forever framed into people’s christmas cards of which scheme it cares nothing about warmth that will flee winter is a fake comforter and a fake artist we coldly wait for for for and then,...
the orientation for your new full time job of defying common sense and becoming an object lesson to the unrepentant ones will last until you retire if you let your short dollars dictate your steps then every word you say will be wrapped in a silent scream and you will be drowned in a common dream in which no work is worth losing the comfort of dull spirit you will be tossed in the middle of a network of mutually agreeable, impressionable genitals habitually overdosing imbecillin seeing their future of fame and fortune in tv-type of glamour while parading in cheap clothing with intrepidity of hungry jackals selling porn on lunch brakes to augment their dollars [you will see locust feeding on locust for the lack of vegetation] screaming with their eyes to money to come they will secretly try to harm you, time and again and when they see you down, they will taunt you: “so where is your God now, sweetheart?” you must keep your head above your years will be be like ...
he was a frivolous anathema loathed for his neverending stomach-on-stomachs romance partially dismissed by his folks for being only in half a steak-eater hungry for a constant flux of admiration but just to have it served, for free, no work he’d just wait there with his fork admitting any guest, not letting any out sanctified with lard justified with ketchup oh, how did Mr. Wolf want to be a shepherd milk believer and honey denier he ambulated around his promised land like he resented walking scratching the ground with his unbelieving feet defying the sunlight with the black holes in his eyes [he wears a necklace made of his victims’ teeth under his designer shirt and a suit but the truth of it is in another world hidden in subcutaneous metaphors where a warrior meets a narcissus amidst a battle of forbidden words] his blessings turned into winter storms [Mr. Wolf cannot lose one game he dines and wines defeats his concubine creates new reasons for dying] ...
oh, to be a rich man in the world of thieves and cons and oh, how not to be a thief in the world of arts of thievery oh, to be a wild goose in the world of crooked guns and crossed-eyed hunters and oh, how not to be a crossed-eyed hunter in the world of silver screens and warped mirrors oh, to be a smoke screen between the light and darkness oh, how not to enjoy the light in the world of stars and fireflies
being a faithful soldier of a false savior to whom extorted worship is of most delight makes you unbelievably adept at paving your way with plausible lies yes, you do have an upper hand holding a diamond-edge ax over every bridge of faith and trust yes, you only cut what you must what your savior commands what pleases your pride but you harm the innocent and by doing so you show you don’t fear God who gave you life [your life is in spirit not flesh your health in truth not fantasy] it’s like you hid your real name from your own mind for what you know is not what you do and how you feel gives you the wrong clue and at the wake up call you're so disinclined so what’s going on in your ever-winning mind? how will you respond when these words ring in your ears: “not only you didn’t feed me when i was hungry you made sure nobody did” whom did you believe to end up like this? your soul, dense like blob of molasses snails down the slope into the pit how low do you need to slide? how deep i...
