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Literature Text
_Altar Ego_
When you line up
all the altar egos,
whether one on travel
or nailed to a wall,
there will be those
who chair persons
and board tables,
huff rousing
vent destruction,
selling air
conditionally,
whilst they customise
what's buxom and
take commands
as requested.
It takes all types really
is a bare fit, takes a fair bit.
Some altars are hot air balloons,
some are tiny pricks,
some are neither fought nor long,
often not for long,
Where there is no farm,
there is no howl.
Where is your place?
Answering their bunny phone?
What are you going to learn
from this ol' bert doll?
That we are all prostitutes
still responding to some
old black market force?
Sell ourselves to something
or give over, give up, give in,
somehow compromise the essential?
Lose sight of grasp and merit
in trade for potential?
Like
any
dust
setting
scattered
I was
on my way
to the idiotic dead.
Where was my place?
Did it feel rude to waste
that real food televisual taste?
I was
busy telling myself I was
enjoying it,
I was well
fed.
My nice little altar
must have been somewhere
in my head.
Even when vague bells rang
I refused to convince myself,
gazing into my navy beans,
that this was the sound at last!
Whether to roll with the die,
where the dreams are cast
into the world
subject, torpid, vast,
broken with the morning
made to the odds
of chance and whim amassed,
or indeed
fold into pieces
of angle, vertex and poise,
while dents and thieves
knick the pose
that you're a product
of background noise.
What was the sound at last?
A spluttered case round about
backwater washboards
and cluttered space
abound routes,
that after all
that's been scrawled,
upheld, and made law,
there's a life going down
all around the old town.
City folk like to joke
all about city smoke.
People here like to know
what to say, how to go
recreate this old world
as we wake in a whirl
everyday as a game
state of play given names
to a norm locking down
the thought forms that stray off
anything
that does not
want to change
to this way.
While some altar egos may go around
and show you how to appease,
divine, parlay, and pray,
demand that their traveling show
is here in your heart to stay,
I shall simply ask of you
to remember when to play,
free the elements,
and be on your way
(how you're supposed to
remember the force of the present,
I'll let you deal with that).
When you line up
all the altar egos,
whether one on travel
or nailed to a wall,
there will be those
who chair persons
and board tables,
huff rousing
vent destruction,
selling air
conditionally,
whilst they customise
what's buxom and
take commands
as requested.
It takes all types really
is a bare fit, takes a fair bit.
Some altars are hot air balloons,
some are tiny pricks,
some are neither fought nor long,
often not for long,
Where there is no farm,
there is no howl.
Where is your place?
Answering their bunny phone?
What are you going to learn
from this ol' bert doll?
That we are all prostitutes
still responding to some
old black market force?
Sell ourselves to something
or give over, give up, give in,
somehow compromise the essential?
Lose sight of grasp and merit
in trade for potential?
Like
any
dust
setting
scattered
I was
on my way
to the idiotic dead.
Where was my place?
Did it feel rude to waste
that real food televisual taste?
I was
busy telling myself I was
enjoying it,
I was well
fed.
My nice little altar
must have been somewhere
in my head.
Even when vague bells rang
I refused to convince myself,
gazing into my navy beans,
that this was the sound at last!
Whether to roll with the die,
where the dreams are cast
into the world
subject, torpid, vast,
broken with the morning
made to the odds
of chance and whim amassed,
or indeed
fold into pieces
of angle, vertex and poise,
while dents and thieves
knick the pose
that you're a product
of background noise.
What was the sound at last?
A spluttered case round about
backwater washboards
and cluttered space
abound routes,
that after all
that's been scrawled,
upheld, and made law,
there's a life going down
all around the old town.
City folk like to joke
all about city smoke.
People here like to know
what to say, how to go
recreate this old world
as we wake in a whirl
everyday as a game
state of play given names
to a norm locking down
the thought forms that stray off
anything
that does not
want to change
to this way.
While some altar egos may go around
and show you how to appease,
divine, parlay, and pray,
demand that their traveling show
is here in your heart to stay,
I shall simply ask of you
to remember when to play,
free the elements,
and be on your way
(how you're supposed to
remember the force of the present,
I'll let you deal with that).
feels bit of a hodge-podge
© 2011 - 2024 shackell
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