Three or more could well be four,
And rituals even scores,
When taken in by Saturn’s sun,
The minstrel’s songs are left unsung…..
Redemption’s underbelly, bloated with the hot air of sold-out
chess board soliloquies and underachiever’s hack tones,
is fat with Rorschach remedies, abounding in trinkets of solitaire,
house of cards rhythmic notation, berated Anglo Saxon pub kings,
and slayers of good doers of transgression. Shall I mock the sun?
The river’s edge at dawn reminds the social-dilemma order of
hypnotists to conjure the truth from eerie screams.
I say trade these sly maneuvers for the stipend pennies
that mesmerize children in fountains of gold in the limitless
undercurrent of revolving serums and antidotes
given in lieu of the spectators enmity.
I ride to the mark of infamy and scorch the revenant
tourniquet of lackluster entwinement with the order of the day,
or, so to say, the jousting field etiquette, where kingdoms weep in meadows of locust.
The wind is the breath of crimson shadows. It is a dark path I meander through
to an unceremonious collision, with seemingly no recourse but to bide the time
of laconic mesmerization for want of a shooting star metaphor.
The gasp for freedom is no man’s plunder. It is a gift of solitude in variant
decrees of saprophytic circumstances. I vent my incessant largess
on monkey see – monkey do politics, and bring home the bacon with tailgate logic. – Sinz