Yet another day 3


3

Tiger of silent night
where oblivion still rules
– there is no return –
carry me on your soft back
beneath cellophane skies of never more,
bless my ignorance with a last kiss.

Grinding grey days
into pulp and foolish pivots
I drive clones of history
and nails to match your eyes
deep into the rotted wood
of long forgotten crosses.

I am the still born
of fake fathers in communion,
eating dead flesh of corpses
not even crows consider kosher.

I am the hopeless future of a child
no longer burning in capitals
of long forgotten legends.

I am no more.

Soiled to the tarnished bone,
furnished with a creaky moment,
slow creepy aftermaths
and all the bitter wine
a man can imbibe
too keep fresh wounds open
I offer my control.

Of all wayward journeys
across the cultural belt
where emotional analphabets
dance like puppets on a page
there is none like the crossing one
where married prostitutes
vacuum the dance hall floor
for a true meaning
of facing up to integrity.

We are all master of nonsense,
always daring the expression
that breaks the illusion,
that speaks straight from the source,
never behind a social convention
or a desire to please at any cost.

White collars of a decadent order
dream of young boys
and a career in the clergy.
They flock at broken words
of a senile old man
waving at the crowds.
They think he knows the how
and the why.

A damp autumn mist
hides the morning lake.

Tiger, tiger that lurks at night,
preying on lost conception
leaving but fear and fright,
runs away with perception.

Children that bleed in the dark,
dogs that snarl, loose in the park,
compassion falls in a dark pool
of the blood of the last fool.

A tiger that lurks in the night
where not one thought is right,
collects the human refuse to sell
in a church with a cracked bell.

Who wants to figure out the place?
Put more make up on a pretty face?
All will be a painful revelation
when gravel hastens acceleration.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1197 times
Written on 2011-09-24 at 21:11

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