96 TEARS ON HOLD, ON THE AIR
Richard Joseph Stephan· Tuesday, October 20, 2020
It’s such an old song that hardly anyone recollects it but I do, your lips still kissin’ a false start
It’s a #QuestionMark for the Mysterio Questionmark too many tear drops for the broke heart
Coming out of nowhere there’s a potion full of magic that nobody knows even exists, kills you
Destroys your ego and any other contrived personality aberrations you’ve adopted to be blue.
Pink or red, purple or blue all of it is without any shade or hue when it’s the sun of a Big Bang
It’s neither here not there twenty four hours every day, seven days every week, month twelves
In an infinite loop, repeating the life and death cycle of animals, food and our personal selves
Nobody knows when we’re going to stop breath and the beat of the blood pump, OMG dang.
Punks, my sisters and brothers winding up way on top of the heap with no dumbell to ring
All of them on their own without leash, with no encumbrance in the mind’s eye, nirvana sin
Commonly complex as if this collapse of matter is anything but an interview with a Big Bang
No will to be or to become and certainly not to will to be dead and buried, burned or eaten.
Stop the roll of the rocks for the moment it takes to snatch a glimpse at the image I tendered
Devoid of the energy of exploding atoms’ inner light, vacuum of nothing, a Void of It and Us
There can be no other conclusion deduced or induced from the propositional premise fuss
Flowing deep down into the grim reaper’s secret, occult spells to rise from death, rendered.
Fire, ice, spinnin’ rocks in a centrifuge of scalded, baked, melted stone, a Pacific-Atlantic fate
Out of oxygen and hydrogen, the liquid coalesced from the state of gas, to be all too humane
Accident or the only other alternative, it’s hidden and has a knack for failing to communicate
Disintegrate the rock, the nature of the beast and you’ve achieved extinction, who left Man?
#Trump2020 is #WordUp because nobody can soar above the wings of America’s magicbus
On the 97th tear, the sun comes up and dawn opens the middle path for being tread upon it
Reruns of the whole routine from the waking to the fading to black, 95th tear gettin’ on a bus
On it’s way to someone lucky or not, dead, a naturally occurring product of the big hurt’s spit.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. Mardi, ROCKTOBER 20, 2020 A.D. @ 12:12 PMPST
{ Crafted while cryin’ to #96Tears Question Mark and the Mysterians on youTube in an infinite loop, link @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R7uC5m-IRns&feature=youtu.be }
FINIS
W.W.A.R.D.?
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