Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Deep red canyon walls,
waist high but big enough,
to hold up the smoky screen,
opaque; keeping the Gods within
- the immortals of the newsroom.
The other world, us branded mortals.
Zeus resides south of all,
withered car but a supple back.
Ruling from his cabin mount,
packaging every grime in town.
Goddesses, queens of bloated worlds,
with castles made of brittle psyche.
One; mighty patron of the city expanse,
with huge burden up and down.
Featureless angels a li'l beyond,
dancing to a brainless tune;
with vacuumed skulls, straightened hair,
fashioned visage yet shallow hearts.
The silent monk and a lover,
his aphrodisiac - the sugar-free tea,
and half-baked tales of singers old,
seducing with no class nor taste.
Then 'em crowd, the supreme jesters;
blow-job artistes to a distant court.
King arrives with deadline calls,
burnt from those response goons.
A mortal band of sporting pals;
this side of the great divide.
Happy at the earthly boons,
least we ain't living a lie.