Perfection is in my personal repertoire, thank God for my DNA, mama and papa holy charity
For decades I have stuffed the turkeys annually for the sake of fake pilgrims’ sweet inner-city
My own love and hate is a thing itself expression of the Earth’s Wing and Fire, now we’re here
And now, the music bleeds order from every open pore of my eclectic corpus delecti fun-fear.
Catholics of Rome and beyond, Protestant protester’s and Calvinist orchard picker’s I-tunes
Dreams came true when they were false and the ones that never came to fruition, God goons
On the front end they got back loaded, high & tight like my flattop-cut above my chin’s nose
It’s so basic and technical, it is what it is, heavenly Hades, Earthbound inches and feet shoes.
Sweet and sour, delectable, even-odd roll of the bones, deadpan curves ahead makin’ me sin
Earth has no angels but they fly away from here, in due haste once a last breath is drawn zen
Visions and sounds of the blown horns, the sawed animal strings and kettle drum beaten skin
Love’s got so little to do with the explosion of gas pockets of a matrix, living life of dead men.
You wanted some shelter from the wind before you faded away but y’all yell until y’all fly-die
No disease was more than just a kiss away from your two lips and turned-up nose, eyes’ high
Angels and the demons that run the terrestrial show, expect nothing less than a holy mother
Between the sheets, on the frozen tundra, out on a limb, I knows the tree in open-sea, father.
You call it Knowledge and I call it Power to Be a survivor of this divine dream, shaboom kid
That ego won’t ever leave once it’s embedded into the flesh and bone, you’ll see how it’ll look
No sooner than much later, we all hope, immortal leaves of words’ compounded in the Book
Completely empty vacuum, no air, oxygen or hydrogen, myth risen Savior’s sorry game of Id.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. September 25th, 2019 A.D. @ 7:11 AM EST
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