Tuesday, January 17, 2017

4.4.68 Full moon in a Kiln / The martyr tries hard drugs

So now we are all in a poppy field     The entire society is all doped up  on hope   and  I'm about to eat your food, homie      leap out from the crease of cicero  the great orator the toreador roars       my phantom tags me and runs    we are watching the mythos play itself out  watching the heroine as she's made        to touch paper in Harlem with an open hand     across the street from the nigga with the bullhorn   Apollo, sun god   Heliopolis   the last place on the rock    our magnetic field   unburdened         these were career protesters trying to wrack up arrests for credentials  greeting each other:      see you in Vietnam,   tomorrow     these we road hoes  with a puppy and a gun    large fur    lark,  slaughter       the purple  kind     dim wine in a backalley  leaning against   the attack  so it  dances   with   me      so now we are all in this poppy /  field  eating from the bottomless vessel  of   wet light  it's  finally ready  to be Dogon AD    could we celebrate   when they hung  him  turned him into wheel grease      Could we at least  pluck a few orange petals and arrange them in our Afros like fangs     

oh, by the way, 

                                 The sunlight is changed by the moon. The moon is a parasite, We are not moon people.    The moon has nothing to do with us.  The moon is not our friend.   

                                                                                                                  Grace notes (8)