King Richards Crypt

God was born in a strasphire hurricane (whatever that means)

I wake up on those desolate streets

With the freaks raising scythes and eating peeps,

And I want the sun tooling round from the cloud

Or else the hope will sizzle far east, not so loud.

There’s a thundering lack of the faith we see

In every rock-a-by corner, shading under thee,

And I want to get down on my knees, absolution!
Day of reckoning comes with roaches in predilection.

 

Walking past all the thongs strung to the gills

We never ever saw this to the pits and the window sills

How the mangy mutts believed in one or the other

As their mothers and daughters and kitties strewn asunder.

Curses!  Light up your hair as the day turns dark

With the skinny-a*s zombies in a daze or a lark.

I can’t fathom anymore how Keith Richards did it,

Nights alone in the crypt kicking f**k-all to s**t.

 

Belief is a word I reign as one of the last left

Under and asunder with the billboards gone, bereft,

By the by with the potholes that God left to die

And degraded all the Gods and the sun on my tie!
I’m confused, I’m bemused, I’m sequentially fused

On a scapegoat time warp back to Sunday school’s muse.

What did it mean, what was it there

Why did my teacher lay down the golden stairs?

Illusion of apocalypse with hope as a cue-card

And I leave on a traffic jam to funky Godard,

And I kill everything and a hamster in sight

And I mark as closing no idea of any light.

 

Who said who makes men bums

Or make the dead come? 

 

Author's Note

this is meant to be about religion, but I can't make much sense of it, so neither can the poem