Sunday, August 4, 2013


When Huber met Eber on the Zuiderzee
with a malt and a miter and an crusty old bee,
they dined and they laughed at the swine 
baring pearls, and they drank of the 
rituals of dead boys and girls
and their thrills were just folly,
a jolly good rime
and they hornswaggled the power
that was wrestled from time.

Oh the brass leaden irony.

A blood thirsty bunch with gross furry teeth
treasures they stole that was called a bequeath,
as the children were snug all snug in their beds
dreaming of sugarplums, frightened of death.

They were ruled. How quaint and perfectly cruel.

Now the grinding of teeth like the bones of the bread
and the zombie return of the beanstalk dead
that whispered the silent but terrible news
there is no hiding from coverage on the spiderweb news.

Sorry to reign on the charade.

In a blink of a spy and a flash in the eye
the house that was cards crashed a domino die.
Time stood still and the poles did shift
The mighty are gone, gone soft in the bread
the many are One and and it's off with their head…

Naw, just fuckin wid ja.
When you cease to even matter
you'd be better off dead.

Sleep tight, it's all right to be invisible instead.
May the lotus and petals rise from the storms
of the dusty old seat of your garden of thorns.