tabboo

A Poem by guv

poem with a message... i use symbols and icons to demonstrate my ideologies, in a surreal setting. it goes on for a while... so if you read the whole thing... thank you :)

The crows circle above, above where you used to stand,
The flock of hornets, the red clowns, the Ferris wheels
The manikins stand where you used to, along with

The dirt, was once a selection of rocks.
They are now eroded to the point that
The footprints you left behind still lay visible,
Despite the years of absence of touch.
You still refuse to look back at the tracks you’ve left
In your path, the only function they still hold is to
Warn others where to stop their venture, the path
Doesn’t stop until it reaches

The fools, the men who have lost their lives
to the velveteen sirens and the cheap,
Burning flesh which covers the ceiling of the pink room.
The sun gets dimmer and the plain fills with

The drunks, the emotionally needy, the weak, the untrustworthy
Invalids whose addictions have taken complete control,
They gave up on achieving any ambitious goals when they
Discovered how to remove that golden crown from their crusty peeling scalps.
They sit down at the red and black table, one of them begins to deal,
And they all listen for

The band and their violins, the group of poor souls who
Were pulled in by false promises of women and power, they play,
Trying to earn an honest living, on this second level of hell.
They play for hours on end, still trying to achieve what they were promised.
Their instruments covered in the blood of the last group who tried to achieve this dream.
One of the only things they need they cannot get, that is

The fiddle in the sand, an instrument discarded by a past dream seeker,
It marks the point of no return on this endless plain.
No body knows what happened to that ‘glory seeker,’ everybody
And nobody has heard of him, they’ve heard tales, fables, myths of
Envy, greed, gluttony, lust.
Of course none of them are true, how could they be, past the point of no return.

The black cat shrieking lays beyond this point, he is not harmful, but a symbol,
The black cat jumps from great cliffs at the end of this plain, not to escape,
But to go deeper into this place, he jumps for the thrill, he has become
Addicted to causing pain, breaking mirrors, setting up ladders, putting salt shakers on
Unfit shelves. He does this only to trick the

The thief giving, the only person on this Cliffside who wants to repent for his sins,
He tries over and over to climb up the rocky Cliffside only to reach the place of the black cats trap and the icy slope which he had to venture to achieve this dream.
And what a dream he has achieved, every now and again he travels to the bottom
To attempt to break the glass wall which blocks him from the dream on the other side.
He is told by the hornets that he must change his ways to break the glass,
He must listen to them and follow their instructions,
He must stop looking for problems with this place and stop trying to fix them,
He must stop trying to find survivors, the courageous,
The ones who have ventured so far that they cannot help trying to succeed.
He must stop ‘helping’

The guardian crying, the one here with the hardest shell, the one who feels responsible
For the death of the one he loved,
He was protecting her, until he became a ‘fool,’
She became the one that they could not be buried,
She was disowned and left to rot,
She is paying for the guardians actions, and regurlarly haunts the ‘fools’ hoping to find the one she loved.
You watch the hornets as they taunt the guardian, laughing at him as he looks around and can’t help noticing

The soldier shaking, the ‘honourable’ one, the ‘hero,’
He still can’t forget that he has become a murderer,
The very thing he was trying to stop, the hornets look at the only ones
To pass through the glass, they do not convict him,
But rather take pity, they know what the training has done, they know
That the training was not physical, but psychologically stitching,
Stitching the marionette strings though his skull, mind and heart.
They no longer pull those strings, he has left the stage, they should have used stronger strings,
Ones that wouldn’t break at the jolt of a gunshot.
He still sits on his rock at the bottom of the steepest part of the Cliffside,
He replays the event which sent him here over in his head for eternity.

He felt the stings pulling at his mind, his toy resting on his shoulder, his strings pulling at his arms, his hands placed on the gun, as he pulls the trigger, the strings pull the trigger, the puppeteer behind him, pulling the trigger.
He still looks through the toy telescope as he creates a family in his own head, not his, but the cowboy, the Indian, the robber, the villain; their family.
And these are the images he plays in his head, when he pictured all of this, he cut his own strings, and has been trying to discard the remains ever since.
He asks himself, if the immature man is willing to die nobly for a cause.
And the mature man is willing to live humbly for one.
What was I?
He looks up at the

The politicians laughing, the ones who broke the glass, the ones who have trampled so many,
The evokers of hysteria for their own personal gain,
The stringers who turn the dolls into marionettes,
They can’t but stare at what started it all;
They can’t take their eyes off of the footprints in the dirt.

The crows, still they circle above, above everything you used to be.