Breaking of Old Habits

 

Music separated from the yoke

Is “True Religion”

Sounds the chords who through self deceit

Incite the proletariat.

 

So says the huckster

Passing through town

Shilling the cure.

 

So says the Rabbi

Lifting the Tora

With music and dance.

 

So says the Crimson fan

Of unknown origin.

 

Dream

Precipice ahead, mob behind,

The wrong guy I tell you,

 

She lied!

The Broad End

 

He killed her on Broadway.  She lies like the lamb.  Graciously,

In plain sight.  Crowds ascend and pass the drunk, 

Slight the performer, kick the nuisance.  He loved her,

So where else could it be done? 

The time arrived, the place revealed, the only way out,

Still,

With each and every move wishing her alive,

(youth’s companion by his side).

 

Mourning brings brooding, the knowing;

Without her death, he’d have no life.

 

It Mutates

Meaning is not required for implementation.

“Take me to your leader” sounds the ticker the death of reason.

Speculation! crowds chant, undulating in ecstasy.  Tear it down

And raise a new monument to despair. 

The moment's here, language changes,

Meanings rewritten by porcupine ambassadors. 

“What is it”? yelled from roof tops

Goes largely ignored by the inventors. 

 

In all depths of incursion meaning must transform

An indicator of the machine's well being

A pointer to inevitable doubts

A reliable friend that never existed.

Dumb All Over

Deacons of the New Church

            Ride the Invisible Worm.

The hull displaces

            Warmth for winter.

Slabs define

            Beds and sills.

All the while winds circle greased print

And a man in black evades surrender. 

 

Hero of Our Time

 

The clock strikes the sky obeys

Victim of the day is drawn in lots.

After a wilding to the sun marks the sentiment

With engravings and archives,

Deeds are performed in ritualistic confidence

Leaving nothing behind for inspection.  
 

Salutations, salutes and winks

Are perhaps the sincerest apologies.

The Odor of Enlightenment

 

Where is this Manna from heaven

            Pardoned in ancient writings?

If not the hands complete

           Is a wriggling snake freedom?

 

Where is this manna from heaven

            Is it not the minding of options?

Or that which is swiftly decayed

            Throwing off the odor of enlightenment.
 

Where is this manna from heaven?

            It does not exist!

Except in the minds

            Of lackluster pheasants. 

Phase Five

Phase five the final era, defined:

            As the putting aside of, the acceptance of,

The least common prophesy.

Free men will attempt apocalyptic acts

            Others will attempt to be free.

The hush of the silent city renders a dismal

Consequence of those centered within the square

            Pushing in concert to obtain the same

Result, that which is consequential to a planet

In constant motion.