Veins Afire With Gasoline Daydreams, Woken Giants Breathing Fire Upon The Horizon

In between the motley faces of fear
hiding behind masks of alienation,
rage at being boxed up like old forgotten nails,
where is a hammer when you need one;
where is the thunderstrike,
strong as whiskey-breath,
anger boiling over in the cauldron of night?

Burn the world
while we burn ourselves in ironic effigy,
and the mothers and fathers disapprove,
rabid with misunderstanding,
for nothing gets past the opaqueness
of their flickering eyelights.

Time pulls decrepit corpses
from the rain-soaked ground,
a macabre show-and-tell,
for the fossil fuel pyrimidines,
an ocean of someones whose villages
float on overshoot river,
while still they build and build,
as if the undercurrents weren’t there,
as if the immutable waterfall,
and Niagra’s hideous laughter,
was simply not there.

Farm the holocaust factory,
billions of suffering beings steamrolled per hour
so poison can build up in our hearts,
so we can all spit in the eye of mother earth,
second by second by second,
then offer up guillotine confessionals at the end,
heads on the chopping block,
apologies and exclamations about the dearth of Free Will.

It wasn’t me,
it was society!

And,
truth be told,
when the marionette dances so vigorously,
and speaks of its strings,
it’s hard not to agree,
to hear that everything you see
that is wrong with the world,
is just the song of the universe
and the melody of retribution
we send into the terrifying abyss
just seems to boomerang right back,
cracking against skulls like a policeman’s baton,
leaving bruises that rise like entropy,
corrupting clear thought,
beginning the cycle again,
gasoline dropped from the incendiary skies,
in a beautiful rainbow that no one ever asked for,
that no one knows how to tame.

Clear blue skies,
permaculture reveries,
the simplicity of a kiss found
underneath an old sycamore tree,
peeling bark always showing the world
what renewal is all about.

If we just could be like that,
we might slow this furious train,
but it’s hard to slow momentum,
when passengers keep on boarding.

Yet the answers are written out in handfuls of dirt,
in a return to the primacy of plants and Planet Earth.

Clear blue skies,
permaculture reveries,
the simplicity of a kiss found
underneath an old sycamore tree,
peeling bark always showing the world
what renewal is all about.

 

 


Please enjoy my books (FREE pdf of first two books here) and leave a 5 star review:

Holding The Bruised Rose Blossoms Of An Attempted Genetic Rinse

Juggernaut Of Yearning

Metaphysical Magic