Who are we? Where are we? Why are we here?
in full reverse.
If you fall and nothing catches you
but the wind in your ears as you fall
you will become
the movement through worlds upon worlds,
up and through your old bones
like chimes and incense at temple:
alive; awake; a bird; a car in a yellow light tunnel;
the light surrounding the tunnel your car was in;
the owner of the tavern who knows all the drunkards names,
dates of birth, occupations, series of unfortunate events calendars,
numbers, likes, dislikes, positions, buttons; favorite scents and sexual positions—
even their dog’s names, dead and/or alive.
If you fall and some thing catches you,
and the web comes soothing and soft
and it’s bright inside of your head
and the voices are brandy and wine,
you have fallen onto Beelzebub’s lunatic menu—
set to be served with Sin’s
original recipe treacle,
and Nanna’s illuminate tea;
and moon-cakes ringing in
a new year in hell;
a new phase of 98 priests.
You are food, my scrumptious expendable!
and require no evening attire
a fresh store of waste
tossed off of the Queen’s
by a bellboy you once knew
as haunter of dreams.
Tell no-one about part one or two.
Food doesn’t speak in Frankincense, Gold and Myrrh,
the only gift they bear
on their way through this sleepy desert
is the gift of:
Hungry No More;
smiling as they fall at the feet
of God’s great golden shores—
awake from the greatest of dreams, if only
for that last shining second!—
The lullaby of the damned.
And shhh, shhh, the Queen, like an angel sings,
‘Haven’t you been so good?
Come to the bed of your last good deed…
Come, little lightening bolt, come…’
Food doesn’t know it is food,
until that first bite taken into darkness—
into the life it forgot
yet to live;
and eternity long after
And this is why one should never discuss the secrets of the universe at all,
never, never ever with anyone, anytime, anyplace—especially at dinner,
weddings, funerals and/or church.
So, in short, is one were to, by some divine miracle or accident, stumble upon said secrets, conversation cards, stone tablets or the like, it is always best never to mention it.
I never did like to talk too much anyway:
the wind in the tunnel is deaf
and the road needs too much translation.
© Kristin Reynolds 11 24 2010
This was actually the first poem I wrote to crack the Alchemy Series egg off—but I tend to use my intuition when posting poems, so, this wanted to come 3rd.
Pure stream of consciousness writing here…it may may little sense to anyone other than myself.
And of course, thanks to Monty Python for part of the title, which came to me post poem (you know the dungeon scene in the meaning of life: conversation cards? this is what i pictured when I read the poem back to myself. lol)