photo by Seth M © via Flickr |
the accordion was named, Jericho
we carried black sack cloth bags
filled with every sound
of joy we could remember
every feeling that could
turn us back into children...
but whereas we used to be able
to lure passage with our calibrations
of surrendering to happy memories,
the wards here gained wisdom
to our ways and blocked us from entering...
we needn't have these tones
as much as enough brute force
to obliterate the doors
whose locks we could no longer pick
for our gold vistas...
the angels here
are righteously damned
musical algorithms and
voracious mind readers...
they can detect our, coming
to take them away, routines
so instead we bake bread and
paint them with crushed flowers and honey
and peddle them outside the gates
hoping to slip past all seeing eyes
of a secure future in order to know
today still has no price upon its head...
and here we hear
the humming
an electrical choir
beneath us...
"run rabbit run
the fun is
in knowing
you can feel
yourself being fed
into what stills you..."
EJR ©
"the angels here
ReplyDeleteare righteously damned
musical algorithms and
voracious mind readers...
they can detect our, coming
to take them away, routines
so instead we bake bread and
paint them with crushed flowers and honey
and peddle them outside the gates
hoping to slip past all seeing eyes"
Ha. This is the bottom line when it comes to poets. And men in general, if they're capable. Never trust a man who brings you flowers or acts like he actually cares about you. It's most likely a scam from day 1. I had to learn that the hard way. And so many girls will fall for it, a million times over. I'm sure you've had a lot of luck twisting them all up over the years.