Tuesday, 11 February 2014

The Lost Cause Of The Progenial Mundane

The Lost Son Burned For Hundreds Of Kilometers,
An Only Engine ACross The Spark-Jetting Track,
Silver-Bullet Cometing On InterContinental Iron,
UnDieing Steel Smashing InTo The Thin Air Shields Of Buffoons...
...
Those Gods Armed With Blowing Horns And UnUberance Universal,
Some Drifting On Prairie Fumes And Trade Winds,
Latching UpOn The Wild Grasses By The EndLess Stretch Of Rail...
...
Some Of Those Gods Would Find A Method To Siphon The Anchorage
From AnyThing Rolling OnThrough To Stop And ReFuel,
Then Latch OnTo The Speed Like HagFish On Oxen-Carnival Bleeders,
Recedeing In Their Morbid Weenings To Secret BoneYards...
...
Where All Would DisEmbark From The SoulLess Molting,
Cackleing As Cross-Eyed Ravenous InTo The Circleing Gutted Skys...
...
...
They Could Pose Once Again By The Station,
BetWixt The Legs And Feet And Luggage,
Hugging Against What Life May Be In Exposure To Calming Promises,
AWaiting For ShoeLaces To Be ReTied And Ears To Nibble And Coy...
...
The Buffoons Saw The Lost Son As A Challenge For Blood-Letting,
For Lost Causes To Eat AWay At The Prodigal Drive,
PreTenseion To Swim ASide The Clot From The InGenuity,
Wagering Hoarded TimeShare And Bickering Over First Rights
For The Choice Cuts,
Only To Become Silent As The Engine Could Be Heard...
...
...
It Switched The LandScape With A Sudden Cracking Of Seldom-Feared Thunder,
Tracks Bent Now Straightened... Where Straightened Now Bent,
Hills TransFormed InTo Gullys Swallowing ThemSelves In White-Water,
Bridges Grew InTo DisLocated Forests Only To Settle For Briar-Hearted Mockerys
To Scratch The Former's Hand,
And Where Old Air Could Be Trusted...  No More... Now Walls Fortified For Lazy Susans...
...
...
It Was Enough To Keep The Gods Guessing...
...
...
UnFortunately,
The Buffoons Soon Developed A Trick To Grow InTo Flesh,
Then To Crawl And Not Float,
Then To Walk And Then To Chase,
Then To Stumble When Not Seen... At Times To Tumble, For The Need Of Sympathy's Pitch...
...
All In New Postures,
With New Language And Wearing Silly Buttons Pinned InTo Their Starch-Stiffs,
They Sought An Easyer Method To Suck InTo Their Guts
That Which The Lost Son Had Sung InTo Deliverance...
...
A Forgotten Frequency,
With Its Station Never A Station,
Nor Built With Platforms Too Beggar'd For Destinations Not Scheduled,
And Those With Memorys Of It To Be Cursed With Waiting For It To Pull Them...
...
Out...
...
Out From The Roads Where No Tracks Meet,
And No Answers Come To Pass.





No comments:

Post a Comment