Call upon the powers and prowess of all the dead artists
Lift this up, past the eight stare ways where looks penetrate in disgust
I wish that you could have been there to see what happened that warm night
Fear; in your malcontent mind lead you to give it up
Now God is banging around in a jar like a moth
The jar sitting in the corner will never help anybody
Intuition, past it’s time like a black banana just a little too ripe to eat
Because being easy, honest and free was never that easy
Abstinence of your mirth
All the laughter that was forced damns you like a failed and fallen bonsai tree
It requires fantastic devotion to keep it moving
Making the fear grow into tiny and hard little capsules like pills
Popping the pills, in your mouth
The pistons rise and fall and scream for oil with sour smelling smoke and screeching
Making the lift go to the eighth floor right past the room where a mason jar sits on a milk crate near a beam of light
Fatalism to spare, bottom heavy because the roots can only be as large as the exultation of the branches
Standing in the hallway, it’s dark except for the dust motes that hang in the beams of light
Darkness, now I’m eating and it tastes like ashes
Damn, it’s uncomfortable in this heat
Willing and unwilling I lead myself to the gas chamber and adjust my collar
They said I could choose
So, I gave it back to all the dead artists

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.