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The grey generation falls to the asphalt,
They churn their eyes to thicken creamy visions,
But power has evacuated where light has flooded
And the Illumination blinded the righteous eye.
As holy souls begin the immolation,
A herald of great feathers tickles the earth.
Dipped into the black sea, they glide;
Raking flesh like a harrows quill—
Sanctifying each man’s sins.
He looks up to the podium for guidance,
But god has been branded a bugger;
Punished to a public castration,
He removed his vocal chords with his right hand.
Tides of blood, flushed lies, like unfolded cards to take the prize,
The resulting firefight always leaves the room cold, but rich.
Looking now to his pigeon neighbors,
He watches the flock’s dance and coo;
Chewing the portioned seeds and worms,
Tangled more than twig tied nests,
Feasting until forced to flee by fright,
They vomit in their children’s mouths
As they smile and join the play.
He looks to his heart, cobwebbed and feeble,
And a shining tear kisses blood as he makes his own escape.
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