Week Three

Eh, Sisyphus?

Eh, can your wanderings appease me,

Sisyphus?

Daily, I doodle while you blab--

unscathingly brilliant at nothing.

Can ye dance, Marionette?

Have yer strings been tied

to the above things

of thine older toothpaste ads?

Ye dance is unsubtle,

ye return to yer man in the tub,

the one who offered you mud for some rubble.

Your habits fulfilled the famine of the Almighty's madness.

Say, can ya count?

Have ya no ink on yer fingers! dark

child with bad habits,

dragged from the basement to an attic, high-rise?

Back to the basement, I imagine

if Sisyphus ever slept.

Dozen Odds With Word Choice, Things Her Maker Will Thrust

A Great Gas Station Prophet,

immobilized with the force of everything,

lit up a pile of gasoline:

The Great Gas Station Poet Sings,

reciting the memorized youthful phrases:

a) don't beat yer child unless ya make them minimum wages.

The Great Gas Station Singer emerges

toward a pile of womens and ends

with a pile of loose drags and forceful sorcery urges sans amends.

The Great Gas Station Sinner thins, wordless,

the iniquities of them blues singers

bring him back inside again.

The Great Fires of Godless Space Combust!

The sugarpie lining of his skin becomes crust!

His eyeballs and steering wheel and mind become rust!

godless purpose, must binge, bring yer pages, frozen

A. On Concrete Life; B. On thee Fleshly Thrills;

C. On Contradictions on God; D. On the Never-Land God

Fly, great things--

child's dead after he's

killed. Harm comes. A fun

man, well, brings. Ain't we from cruel seed?

When them stories flung thine daughter

lucky, some laughin'

wondrous grins an' spinning

clover. Man, I earn those bowls:

delight, group sex, a wash machine.

Thine daughter,

if a cry of commands

cues mass screens, walls can sin indeed.

Read, line after line,

as He gifted his rooms:

Him will forfeit.