Sunday 26 June 2016

Southside angels


What if "Time" wasn't a tag but a sign that something sublime
Was happening in a place where on the face of it the shine was long gone
Where the map and the flag combine with the past
To cast a shadow so sad you can see hope rejected in every breath drawn?



But maybe just say the unexpected was a portal for the immortal
With the angels in the architecture and the wings torn into a forlorn poster where most of us would just walk on?
If the talk of strange sights wasn't only for the lonely and deranged
But a rent in the veil for us all and a miracle dawn? 


Coolfin Fortuna Egeria Daphne Pandora Euterpe and Thalia
Seven streets seven sisters goddesses muses and all the sweet dirty Southside
Lyrical grime full of legends and yesterdays spent in a ramshackle tale
It might be Time 




1 comment:

  1. Eerie... yet, profound. Yet, it will NOT be like that in Heaven. Follow us and wiseabove...

    What's your address in Seventh-Heaven, dear? Dunno? Mine's 111 Rock-Solid-Ave, Milky Weight, Seventh-Heaven. My mansion? Mama mia. A grandiose, exquisitely detailed, 3-acre-stuccoish home in a cul-de-sac with mountain-bike-trails we may conform with our thots. Why limit Almighty God? Why not fire-ALL-cylinders in one-fell-swoop? My intimacy with women Upstairs? Subtle, stupendous, fire-engine-zeal: skiing, surfin, sailing, snorklin, savvy, sassy space travel -to- scarlet symmetry! elegant ostentation! potent intoxication! technecolor satire to snuggle and serve: slow, soft, supersonic Sunday School which is an eXcellent, eXcessive eXaggeration of our lives woven together that's push-button, point-blank improv; a plethora of high-degree, Newtonian-laws-of-major league, victory laps where one force of kick-ass, party-hardy, white-water-rawness equals every, single, evening with wild knights, phorNphood, avatars, tender faeries, cereal killers and symbiotic, front-row-seats (subject to unofficial rules). Yes, of course! Baby making is most certaintly an option! ...yet, I gotta wanna see how She feels sharing me. My many planets? Gorgeous girls? Gott'm. Gotta lotta'm. Gotta gobba IQ, too, withe K2 orchestra only accessable to those with adolescent behavior: TOTALLY YOURS!!! How??? Gotta accept Jesus, missy!! Gotta. Wanna. Or you're sooo out-of-order, toots. Therefore, let's accelerate to the Maximum POW!er; let U.S. 'populate' the universe with loyalty to the Bright Son. Wanna join me in God's wild Kingdome?? Chop, chop, dear. Time's running-out for us in this wee, existence finite PS: Time, as an entity, is also mortal: while thar aint no time in Seventh-Heaven, dollface... yet, puh-lenty of time to love due to the superior-supply-of-summer...

    ...cuzz the only other realm aint too cool: sweltering, cramped and Fugly rotten; BeavisNbutthead sawing-off your cranium with a chainsaw; nasty darkness, eternal starvation, Satan lies like a Persian rug; o'er-the-Hillary profusely cakkkling for eternity, no purchase necessary. How purrrecious! sez Gollum. 'Nuff sed. Decide NOW. Make Your Choice -SAW.

    MyCrucifixIsMyFix.blogspot.com
    -blessed b9

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