Sep 142011
A bold bolt of rose lightning Bids me sizzling its chosen bowman be, A filial Philoctetes Despite of our history. So few know the maiming game Half so well as swollen love can tell; Knotted lots of condemned confederates Go rolling down the slay-yard line, Conveyered to red hell and devastation, Again. What redeems the fugitive from his red pen? (Funny, nes pas?) How escape the mirrored Mall to slow roast in the hopeless Wilderness Again? Monet's mash of fabulous figments hand-ground to red renown.... Cezanne's carnival of pink icebergs sailing house-high intra-Ardennes.... Beethoven's beaten TAA-DUMP, or Baudelaire's lurid la-lahrrr.... All are the agony of gangsters Throttled or thrilled by moment's one consciousness, Exhorted from the dumpy swamp That beats and retreats in the fetid chest-- O soully broken brothers! Taken in angina and angst, past mists To see pantsless God Our Father And never again live well as worms. His love has hoovered your harrowed bowels, His meaning's memes flay mincemeat from your lives, Embattled brethren of the happy pit, Giggling piglets skinned in velvets Wanton wannabes Voltaged with vim, Summed nothings who see The glory of Him. Alpha and Omega, faith precedes Phantom efficiencies of famine and feast, Trust in the somethings our nothings provide, Vomiting vacuums for lebensraums, Aching for spaces no spaceman divines, Only oh aum ah oh our holy um Can freight the frigate We sail to red gates That frame the lonely bowman Asleep in zero's nonman's land triggerfinger itched by lightning
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