In my soilitude, silence does not belong to the wind.
The left ear is inwardly polluted with the griminess of sin.
Squatting, sprawled, undignified, and poised with the proudness of our Queen the cat.
I am a liar for being the seeker of my own confusions and pasts.
Who wrote this script of stupidity?
A repressed orphan consumed by insanity.
Slapped in the face with brass wire,
The cold palm of an irish reality on Black Sunday.
The swirling emerald green nudity of absinthe.
In my solitude, the day does not arrive.
Though i wait with the patience of a child, eager for the desire of his sweets and his sugar rush.,
The sun does not embrace those sullen eyes, a cave in mourning.
They are too withdrawn to capture the beauty of sex in the creation of the sunrise.
And I whispered back….
The day waits, calmly.
It’s patience the dream of monks.
Sipping time with the serene certainty of a knowing lover,
It smiles often at the script already in play.
And grins when you say “Liar”
For the play is themed in the insane stupidity of god images
Gandalf the White gave sentience to carbon molecules and cast them out
The objective; “find chocolate flavoured starfishes”,
With the eating of babies in the sweet Mephistophelean sauce of handmade sin,
a Greek gift of free will offered at every turn.
Hence, I can only look to the truth of the day,
To come into being, in the scene
When inner peace snuggles comfortably on the bedding of your soul
And the orgasm of each sunrise finds you in waking anticipation