Funk the punk poet
Pours a rain of melody
On a white light of thought
Entrapped in dirty laundry
On a high-wire high over stardust!
All she ever was and ever shall be
Will be a puff of stuff,
Over hours of superfine atoms.
Her shadow walks a gantry that
bridges the universe to a place where souls live in fear in the
eternal waiting room of purgatory never to truly live or die but to
rot in a prison they created for themselves on a island ship called Earth.
Then it’s all out access to retribution in the
ombras with a game of pleasurable death!
We come to the all or nothing child’s play in the garden of
hideous flowers where the faces of the departed reincarnate in
syncronic super funk fruit.
Next to them are the impervious juggernauts of
trembling poppies of Zion eager to please the daughters of the sub-convention!
So let us now suspend our evil thought for the day
where high above the parabola of songs on the hip zip and spray!
The state of affairs of my currrent state of affairs.