A bit revised and with a new title...
Father of blueprints that erode in the night,
enhance your decay with your lips that stray
on its meeting with toad tampered earth,
snake me your eye and dance with the moon
in this easel old tram dream I grudge and feed.
I see the trance of ships that load and groan
and fight the cry, the spray of further burials
where guns and bones of fish and screams
slam the play, the fake, the road that spy
on beams of leery lights that flip the tray.
This road will never be enough for I
that once strode in proud of prancing
with a stolen flash, a chimney chance
to sweep the swollen bay that mankind make
just to keep the balance between the loud.
Forsaken metaphors of never find,
true rebellion against all walls that lean,
ominous and dark, like a hunt for Persian caviar,
a rash salt that carry you across all bridges,
all just to spend the stir that died with gills.
Blessed be the first amoeba split
with irreversible intentions in the bio sludge
without purpose or murky moral creed.
No first father fed the first feline thirst
and now we budge for any and all.
Poetry by Bob
Read 652 times
Written on 2006-10-13 at 21:33
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The Atheist Manifest
Father of blueprints that erode in the night,
enhance your decay with your lips that stray
on its meeting with toad tampered earth,
snake me your eye and dance with the moon
in this easel old tram dream I grudge and feed.
I see the trance of ships that load and groan
and fight the cry, the spray of further burials
where guns and bones of fish and screams
slam the play, the fake, the road that spy
on beams of leery lights that flip the tray.
This road will never be enough for I
that once strode in proud of prancing
with a stolen flash, a chimney chance
to sweep the swollen bay that mankind make
just to keep the balance between the loud.
Forsaken metaphors of never find,
true rebellion against all walls that lean,
ominous and dark, like a hunt for Persian caviar,
a rash salt that carry you across all bridges,
all just to spend the stir that died with gills.
Blessed be the first amoeba split
with irreversible intentions in the bio sludge
without purpose or murky moral creed.
No first father fed the first feline thirst
and now we budge for any and all.
Poetry by Bob
Read 652 times
Written on 2006-10-13 at 21:33
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Saga |
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Bob |
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David Hazell |
| Texts |
 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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