So maybe I asked your Lord to levy his mercy|
upon me. Maybe, he would put a tax on lies.
Maybe, cunning as the careful sea, his shadow
would gush into the hard-drive of a cave. Simply,
to fix the intoned artist squarely (he is full
of himself) onto the waking wall. Geology thighs
the dislocated ankle of some beleaguered cliff. In extremis
we would together tame the torrent - then - scale the veranda,
flung with the drizzly life of man: scalars weigh shadows
down with the vertical vengeance of a God who is all
going to waste. Froze again. Okay,
computers the cliff top. A chip on its shoulder.
Charged in the dock. Dare I not? Minimize what I must say
to avoid the never-alternating analogue God whose throne
is thunder clapping in the heavens. Babel is now a pylon;
strung theories between. (He lanced his pants on the washing line)
I chant my lines. A script that would never clothe
the clothes line, but beamed by the satellite. Bad news
says a’ forecast. Connection lost. Tight rope walkers
are too thin in this typed up party town. Infinitesimal
is too big a word to describe the brain of the Word
transmitted by the breathless wind. I sinned,
by smiting you with an emoticon. Smiling?
dash the colonial God. Pluperfect once-upon-a-time
did grinned the clown. Heads on toes, knees on shoulders,
drown across this ocean abattoir. Frown, as He wrenches the jaws
of upside down eternity. SIN top to bottom wave. Digital:
ON and OFF. Is there a switch for the sea? OPEN, it says. Shed
of skin. Sweets. Saline seas. Sesame seeds on the silver wind
that twinkles over little stars. The grain of the Word
is dust before oh so un-natural isle. This dumb dawn can be living
and dying, during the nanosecond of its existence
then is after forgotten figures, filed away in the cabinet
by the petty officer god. Attention! Danger! Rocks!
Remember, good Christian paper clips cannot mend the isle
when stapled to the precipice, and sucked by the sea.
© 2010 Candide
(All rights reserved)