September 25, 2015

the accordion was named, Jericho...

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 ©

1 comment:

  1. "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"

    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.

    ReplyDelete