The Pilgrim's Odyssey

I am about to call your bluff

The theft on the bulbul's woman's stake

My heart, a concentrated pulp 

Dispossessed of it's leverage,

Calling ransom.

I favour the great winds of Asian typhoon,

The marvellous clipped ear on the end of the world

The dissatisfied drum roll of my pulse 

Waltzes with the arthritic blinking of day,

A suitor unreciprocated

And the sickening incense of forgiveness

Rots like Hell waiting for a brisk nod of head

You can count me dead before I syncopate

That right-of-way, a bound-by-nature assurance

Of my timeless serving God

The world is entitled to the dead skin of me,

The flakes rearing like poultry wattle,

And should they want the death of me

The sewing needles of my lively harness

Lies in the wake of one bard

Not many goad the life of one tank of treasures,

The timbering pipeage of collective gas

Being thrust onto us, involuntary partners,

Forsaking us to a witch's way of suffrage

Our mother's policies the only decode

The mountain herd lies grunting with the wisp,

The shepherd a forensic of retaining 

Bare footed to the veins and wrinkles of age,

A crystal eye of shame and diadem

Of titanium rouge, lost for all

Tiny king, insignificance of all the world,

Rules the edge of the world

Five-footed monstrosity, stammers unabashedly,

The toad of his story,

I love him with all the might they've left me with.

I harvest myself in the ambrosia stye,

Open mouthed like I had anything to say

Roaming shyly like something slyly

A fickle piglet, a devoid oink,

A perfect precision too late, too late

The potent eyes of man ward themselves 

Off of the delight of me, but I fathom them

Mercilessly, dabbling in the science of them,

A droplet in the noir valley, a figment of their

Raptured couture, weathered storm tor-ment.

The great big boulder, 

The crowning faeces of my skull,

A war between the two halves, a tearing

Of the filaments, the acid, too lactic to

Pray today, the congregation turns to me for guidance,

I submit like an achieved coward.

I upturn myself

A shrivelled necessity, a pimpled breast

To wane away the ill dialect,

Leaving you and I, a language district of

The night in the dales, night-in-gales

The sorriest impediment is that

I couldn't write for you.

I couldn't even write for me. I wrote for

The end of the world, and how it would

End after that, over and over and over. 

Reviews

[Scott Metro]

A thought provoking weave...intertwined...
Very interesting..
Enjoyed the journey.