I don't know

illusions lightning through lipid mainframes;

thoughts as crooked as a scoliosis spine.

timelines tied in slipknot confusion:

watery monsters and angelic grins.

 

geared heads spin like globes on wobbly axis,

sporadic wolf tracks on a cold, snowy page.

the stage has collapsed; cast and crew fallen

into a pit of depression and drat.

 

“God spat in the clay,” say the wild-eyed sages,

“and up rose the mudman of sinful dismay.”

a parasitic worm in a fruit too enticing;

the soul-eating icing on our doomsday cake.

 

then, mental magicians of colder persuasions

point to monkeylike uncles of embryonic whales.

pale science has eyes of microscopic focus,

but, I say we’re locusts who plague all that grows.

 

and, who knows who is right, if 'right' even applies.

the gigantic pride and the dogmatic lies envelope

small truths that elude every finger.

illusions lightning through lipid mainframes.

 

 

Reviews

[Kenneth The Poet]

This sounds like something Zarathustra would say before he was crucified.

Speaking of which, I need to read that book.

[Kerry O'Connor]

This is just superb work, RG. "God spat in the clay..." That whole stanza is just amazing.