Friday, August 19, 2011

Read this in Ragtime or not at all

Dark matter doesn't matter so much it seems,
what matters darkly is buried in dreams,
filling a void towards the apple that fell
upwards from heaven to luminous hell.

O! The Mythology!

(Not to make light of the Hindenburg,
but, hey, though lighter than air-
that was one heavy crash, man)

I love fiction, yes it's true-
There ain't nuttin' fiction ain't do.

(And it's made us what we are today)
That's history in a nutshell-
multiple stories, multiple lies.
Here's a bad pun: greaves against griefs.

Where's my Surplice?
Where's my Pooja?
Where's my Incense Stick?
Where's my Tiki?
Where's my Torah?
Where's my Fetish?
Where's my Hound's Tooth?

(The last one is for Coco Chanel-
That's a belief system too,
but it could be an amulet
or a fetish too too too taboo.

Best to ask Fergus,
after the Druid.)

Guess what? You're gonna die.
Know what? So I am.

Numbed by clear and or ruby red
philandering by a secret name,
was he was known or was blind
to an awkward table lamely set.