|'The satyr and the peasant.'|
etching by Wenceslaus Hollar, 1607 - 1677
tell me, when my working class dream glass house is shattered
by the ties that bind me to my humanity, ought I untie
Prometheus to shed some light on the subject ... fuck those
hungry birds ... I'll lie in wait and eat their tiny livers with some
lovely micro greens ... at first I'll offer them Jack's magic beans
... legumes, I've consumed when wanting to tell my tall tales ...
and I don't chew them so well because I like the sounds I can
make when alone and in possession of a yoga ball ... were you ever
going to believe me when I said a cloven hoov-e-d goat man was
my father ... the stench of disdain is plainly obvious ... opaque
shades silhouette you like nothing else save burning your
house down so now we use the newer lower wattage LED
lighting ... and combining those with aerosol-ed mdma
goes a long way for a gathering of vibratory beings to get to
their hearts of things much more quickly, given at first the ease
on the eyes ... nose knows we know it wants to know
what is going to be the path ... likes to have inner folds and petal
storage for the pressed fiber felt dark before dawn that we
sometimes pocket as a memory ... the marrow
we give to the bones is for ghosts to pick through ...
and as we said each other's prayers it
mattered not if we believed ...
found Prometheus, just scattered remnants of parties with
candles and tons of graffiti ... all that remained
on the crag was chained rust and lazy
fat souls conditioned
to speak like Diogenes
and demand to be fed by tourists ...
it reminded them of Père Lachaise Cemetery ...
we agreed to pick up the
garbage and not look any begging soul directly in the eyes ...
we had been raised by wolves
and warned of Gorgon-ic and Basilisk-ic certainties
in stone, surrendered souls could possess ...
at the summit we took care to wear eye gear ...and not to be so
afraid of Euryale's cries on the dark seas while we drive down to
the sea and burn, in that found oil barrel ... the garbage we
collected ... we can clam steam ... and jacket some potatoes ...
I believe we saved that tequila ... someone always has weed ...
when it comes time for dancing though do it slow and with your
eyes closed when embracing anything or one
away from the flames ... because Euryale can
ride both wave and wind turn you
to stone in breath and begin
... here at the end of poem as well ...
because we all knew she
would never get over Medusa's death and that losers in
mythology can't paint history as well as the winners can ...