Timleeland

Saint John the Televangelist

There are times, exceptional and true,
that none can fathom from a practical
point of view. An era born by you,
the ephemeral one, the magical
son of a rich eccentric that knew
well enough around all things mystical.

Your name being writ with a star's breath,
sensitive to beggars and prophecy
while rising above questions of death
by quieting those sworn to secrecy.

Each crossroad leads to a lithe prism
where wedding bells and a gown of torn silk
are held under false nails that schism
'tween the Alpha, the Omega, the ilk,
banished through a malapropism
uttered by a holy man bathed in milk.

Landscape of the Damned

Hunks of Rock & Gusts of Wind

This sentence consists of isolated incidents whose
subsistence is dated from before spoken language,
during an age where guttural utterances would lose
all meaning, back when primates were nothing but a bridge
of small instances created by random accidents.

Back when indigo skies streaked with universal
violence shifting in a sanguine-like rehearsal
that then rang out and rose, even above the dawn,
while dense bodies of matter expose gravity's brawn
by attacking downward in timely installments.

How the heavens rage, seething upon bleakly boiling seas,
as colossal storms force lightning to drape endless sky
and for the thunder to smother the teeming rivers dry
of so little sacrifice, back when the gods would please
one another by playing with great Poseidon's trident.

Are You There, William S. Burroughs?

The Buddha Contemplates Universal Color

MASCII

I find my mind ritualized by undefined
pride as it hides behind a mechanical
persona, sensual and slyly fit, headlined
with a type of boldfaced recognitional
code winding inside a skull clearly undermined
by having dots for eyes and dashes for stubble.

The 99% Solution

Bending iron wills in the shade of mass graves
tends to be disquieting for those who crave
stillness from the middling eyes of beaten slaves.

"Death is always victorious in battle
even when life holds on to us and rattles
us as we graze our lives away like cattle."

Speaking with conviction, this king of all beasts
drops to one knee wondering thusly the least
of which is how his flock will eat these raw feasts.

Pop. 9,888

Behold then, under varied awnings
of all stripes unfolding with whimsy
despite an August sun dawning
early over clouds acting clumsy
and uneven, a few men flock
past storefronts to just simply gawk
at the wares behind the windows.

One particular plain-spoken man
rolled his eyes about like some token
set of hills where maidens of Diane
would hunt naked using oaken
bows and arrows made from dead gods' bones
then the man took out a few stones
and threw them against the glass.

Shattering and scattering downward
as alarms sound in wild amusement
while the man smashes a foul word
through a fresh and empty arrangement
of pure space brought on by the slight
incongruity that one might
expect from living in Quicksand.