Kerosene Dove
From the dithering distance
The fountain puke swelling
In the belly of the sedentary sheens
Excoriating the cobbled streets
In the void knots of the theme park:
Amused with clockwork courtesy
And a tethering idiosyncrasy,
But the azure moiré of the canopy
Was no better than the soigné hostility
Imploding a muted friction;
A compulsion in its best
That scathes the incrustations
Of a reticent fellow in the flue
Clipping the flustering plumes
In the comport of a king
Ousted from his throne
Injecting the secrets to the bones
That where hollow in constitution.
Our fellow dove made of kerosene
Opted the safety in the blear of the scene
Suffocating on the surfeit effervesce of coos
While the soupcon quintessence kicked and flew
Far from the cotillion of the pendulums
And the infelicitous instigator of the palming odium,
But in the frangible hurls of the paroxysm
Beneath the torpor of his brooding wings
Is a fire that consoles the condoles of bliss
Yearning for the violent daze of the setting sun
To flick the yawning switch of shuffled impulse
Clipping itself to branch out in deeper fathoms
In the bosom of a cavern with smoldering fences
The wafting with the winnows of inadequacy
Lingering in the air will gyrate to enthuse
The urges of sadomasochism in the kerosene
Lathering and inebriating our taciturn fellow
With pseudo-valiancy and its kiths and kins
Thus, he will hurtle unfettered by any string
And he shall kiss the pregnant gloaming
Allowing its fingers to seize and grate
The lithe feathers bristling to scintillate
With the ignition of the kerosene
And the air shall stop breathing
And fanning the implosion of whim
To watch the dove incinerate
Slithering in austere vividness
Into a surreal orb of quasar
Sending the sun to abeyance
While singing the swansong in synergy;
The demise in an esoteric lilt
Humming in a whispering sift.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Kerosene
everywhere I look I see
exclusive huddled
uninviting shelter
is privilege
of the same and competent
kerosene keeps me warm
I'm alone to watch it burn
kerosene
exposure is a pitiful
and pointless way of dying
before it gets me
I'll set a funeral pyre
kerosene keeps me warm
I'm alone to watch it burn
kerosene
i'm a man and
my dignity won't wave
Tonight buildings rage!
kerosene keeps me warm
it feels so good
to watch it burn kerosene
kerosene keeps me warm
feels so good
to watch it burn kerosene
song performed by by Bad Religion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Have Seen a Fellow
I have known a fellow
With a statuesque threshold
For the flipping jabs
Of kerosene tongues
And I had seen him
In so many nights
Under a farcical lamppost
Reckoning the deluging drought
That had imposed his inebriation
With his sordid fingers latched
Into the waist of desolation,
And he was scarcely available
By the maws of the sun
For he is tethered
To inadequacy
And poverty
Of all squalid kinds.
I have seen this fellow
From a distance and he was fine
With his dyed chestnut tresses
Combing the wisps of light
That drifts far from his eyes
Which were blackly tired
Sunken deep in a vale
Dug by his skeptic vision,
And then I looked closer
Into the marred paper
And he was hideous
And grotesque.
He was lean, too anorexic lean,
That the looming sun
Cloyed in a taut metal string
Can never stroke his spine
Slithering in sinewy lids
Thus, would never cast his shadow
And he was seemingly tall
Until he darted through a crowd
And cringed without recoil.
I have seen this fellow
Saunter past the catastrophe
Of pawned breaths
And sycophancies,
Dragging his heels
Through the scathing embers
Of bleak serenity
Juggling abortive things
On his scrawny hands
To dodge the mangling bullets
Of the loneliness
That he can never avert.
I have seen this fellow
Clutch his chest at nights
Tossing a vigorous cigarette
Into the silent bedlam
Of the creeping pillars
Of the elusive vying for
The kiss of the serpent sun
I have seen him strip
His medical uniform down
Clothes off, lights on
Fondling his copper flesh
With the caress of his laments
And his soul shut
The persiennes and swindles
A lion's puissant prowl
I have seen this fellow
Build lofty fences
Of steely open palms rigidly
Shearing the foliage
Of the vacant sky
And likewise,
Subtly pleading
For alms,
And sometimes
Saliently groveling
In a beguiling barricade.
I have heard this fellow
Pray for what he shouldn't,
Rubbing the space juxtaposed
The bridge of his nose
Until the salty sea
Turn into a bitter wine
Of spangling crimson
And the gush of blood
Would sober him up.
I have seen this fellow
Quaver violently
From holding the razor
To swoon the stubbles
Of his clad garden
And from avoiding the halloos
Of the pulsing in his neck.
I have seen this fellow
Watch me watch
A fellow who never had
Anyone looking after
In the massive number
Of his latent breathing.
poem by Norman Santos
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To The Man of Multitude
In a jet black guise
With the patina of bold vying
You are the nighttime sky,
You are the fathoms of the pit,
And the quintessence of the labyrinth
Is within the scars of the manacles
That had marred the luster
Of your candor vision
But the lurking predators
In the fringes of your capitulating flame
Could never halt nor corrupt
The spangling splendor
Draped in the jet black guise.
I've seen you knead against the quakes
Sullied by the caustic impalement
Of a sardonic rebellion
To oust the dexterous entanglement
In a cajoling bereavement
But more than this, I have seen
You eruditely build lofty sentries
That divulges a binary path
For a tatterdemalion comrade
And yonder what I've seen, I had unfurled
A gyroscope of chances
Within your vestal core
Dabbing with its own remedy
Amidst the clangors and vexation
You remained resolute
To your sheering honesty
And it had baffled me
When you said you were reticent
For in each of your gutters
You propel your own current
Like a stern windmill
Looming amidst the mayhem
And the slapstick charades
Never delude in their consoles
For your sifting sagacity
Possessed an intrepid heart
You are a savant owl
Of enigmatic marquetry
Who had witnessed surfeit requiems
Of thousand floundering souls
Like that of a comely soul
Educed into a comely man,
Or like that of a lone lion;
And the sooty plumes
Of your subterfuge
Is just as enthusing as
The struggling vagabond
Beneath the puissant wings
And the labyrinthine eyes
I'll keep you in my loins;
A chanting spell against
The beguiling of the sirens
For you are teeming
With codes and keys
To a profound sublimation
Of verve and valiancy
Inside a prolix prose
Where I had found myself
Slurring in the eddies
But buoyed and riveted
In the esoteric resilience
Mount the insuperable gorge,
And I shall heave your lissome string
So you could set of far, adroit kite
And I wouldn't be cumbersome
In the blear of your frescoes
But if you could seize me
Please, let your winds ferry me
For you are so many!
That sometimes, my oppression envy,
And a moniker is not apt
For your puissant authenticity
Carry on, brother!
You're a man of multitude.
poem by Norman Santos
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Inevitable
When the stars held hands
And slow danced in the blear
Of the lazy purple clouds and
The mistral mantle of fog
Ominous without her moon
Comes creeping with a beckon
The disquietude expands
Into the room of the future
And the clock's hands swooned
Into each other like dead bodies
Toppling like walls of dominoes
Malingering for the final clout
And the consummate abeyance
And inside, I cringe with the void
And hollow bones, for I know not
Of the Promethean key they spoke of
I cannot resume my saunter
In the semantic of romaticism
Surmising a hopeful trepidation
Is but another dry stick thrown
Into the pyre soused in kerosene
Waiting for my back to lay
Tired from the gallows, tired to pray
Yet, enduring or not, I do dream
Of days pacified by chaste bliss
I dream of love as I dream of marigolds
That never have I touched nor seen
Or wonder if they have claws and thorns
To safeguard its frangible corona
I dream as I wake up asleep
From sleeping awake,
Of love, loving and in return
And whilst the lunatics peer
Into the gelid window pane
Traversing the lattices
To find the supple flood
Of their ashen moon's hair
poem by Norman Santos
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The Magpie and the Young Dove
On the ground they struck each other
with their wings out stretched.
But the dove was so much smaller
and couldn’t evade the magpie’s pecks.
As feathers flew, it held down the dove
with its powerful grasping claws.
Once, twice, three times, it pecked,
and again several times more.
The tired dove’s resistance vanished
as the magpie took one hop back.
It stood admiring the results of its conflict
before making its final attack.
This brief encounter was nearly over,
the dove turned to face the magpie,
but then a dog approached the scene
and the magpie flew into the sky.
Keeping a close watch over its prey,
it waited in a nearby tree.
The dog lost interest and sauntered away,
giving the magpie opportunity.
One hop then two, it approached for the kill,
but the dog returned to save the day.
This time the magpie didn’t come back,
and the dove recovered to fly away.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Dove of Dacca
The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower—
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings—
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
He set in his bosom a dove of flight—
`If she return, be sure that I fall."
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
"Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep—
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove—if the dove—if the homing dove
Come, and alone, to the palace wall."
The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad—
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
She opened her wings and she flew away—
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall!
The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame—
Slept in the flame of the palace old—
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!
The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove—the dove—the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower—
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Johnny Speaks
THE sand-man he's a jolly old fellow,
His face is kind and his voice is mellow,
But he makes your eyelids as heavy as lead,
And then you got to go off to bed;
I don't think I like the sand-man.
But I've been playing this livelong day;
It does make a fellow so tired to play!
Oh, my, I'm a-yawning right here before ma,
I'm the sleepiest fellow that ever you saw.
I think I do like the sand-man.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Harlequin
In the clout of a shotgun world
Of feral catwalk alleys
And dog-strut hungers
Subsistence is a farce comedy
Rummaging in the ripples
Of one's convictions
And the furor wrought
By such idiotic bliss;
Of obstreperous finagling
In the batting eyelashes
Of make believing,
Is the swansong
Of the ethereal, non-carnal,
Point blank demise.
Ball a smoldering spit
Inside the brawls of one's feet
And you may find the streak
Of unflawed erudite alibis
For these chortles,
And the pantomimic silence
That I spill in a platter
Of another slapstick charade
Of a feigned harlequinade—
Raveling a thread
Of luridly tangled fences
Made of yarn and lattices
Of tethering promises
A make-up in lieu of mendaciloquence.
Will you comb the tresses
Of this woebegone capitulate
Within the pillars of the self?
Deceiving the perpetual churning
Of the crippling bones
And all its lovely yearning
To be one with guffawing
Without the inflection of pestering
Yet, the manacles I woven
Cannot be shorn by the secretion
Of a perfectly maneuvered
Soliloquy and isolation.
Palm this intoxication
With the treacle of your blood.
Guzzled by a mask
D'you think the harlequin
Breaks the twitching with
Veritable effervescence?
Roll those marbled vision
And undrape the visage
Of saccharine pride;
A harlequin is poignant in all places
With black teeth and disembogued eyes,
It is you who laugh
With every esoteric motion
Be it flight or fall
What are you looking at?
What are you wishing for?
poem by Norman Santos
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Psalm 116
Who steps down from the seat of glory?
Who comes down from the heavens above?
It's my Lord and my King who has heard my cry
Who flies to me on the wings of a dove
It's an incredible thing in the darkness
When its shattered by light from above
Just when I thought there was no more hope
You came down on the wings of a dove
I was falling ever deeper into darkness
And I could see no light from above
And I cried out with all that was in me
And you came down on the wings of a dove
You have delivered my soul from death
And you have filled my soul with love
You restored my crushed and broken heart
When you came down on the wings of a dove
poem by Frank McEleny
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If You Can't Leave It Be
What you found sure upsets you
You never saw it coming, did you?
It's easy to be surprised with both your eyes sewn closed
Handled with great precision
Another faultless execution
You're the subject of this exhibition
A willing cadaver
A willing cadaver
Scalpeled, sutured, made whole again
These cuts are leaving creases
Trace the scar, fit the pieces,
Tell your story, you don't need to say a word
Call off the cavalry
Can't save a wretch like me
Clean this with kerosene
If you can't leave it be, might as well make it bleed
Scalpeled, sutured, made whole again
Your wires are frayed, can't fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to stand and fight
There's something better wrong with you
Your wires are frayed, can't fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to fire right
There's something better wrong with you
Your pulse is anemic
You're tired of the fire
You're bruising too easy
And falling behind
And no one is waiting for you
And no one is waiting for you
Call off the quarantine
Can't save the rest from me
Clean this with kerosene
If you can't leave it be, might as well make it bleed
Scalpeled, sutured, made whole again
song performed by by Dashboard Confessional
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dysgraphia
The ballpoint slewed
The serpentine alley
In a frisky ballet
And the rapping of the estoque
Quavered the roof beams,
Shattering the heaven
Where I fell through
In a requiem
Of tainted inks.
Fingers latticing
With an electric entanglement
And the gods hummed a lilt
Of elegiac carousing.
Words toppled
Out of the gutter
And the silken moiré
Unruffled, ejaculating
Incorrigible life.
A bard manqué,
A laureate usurper,
In a briskly cotillion
Of a subsiding swansong.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Lion of the Dawn
The sun sliced through the ample sighs
Of the foggy dawn and grazed
The inert life in each
Quiescent leaves
Of the forest's canopy.
The world was a burning orb
In the misty horizon
Of its arid skin.
Every fraction started
Rousing into life,
From the blossoming buds
Of the wild bougainvilleas,
The elucidation of
The forest floor clad in moss,
The subtle tremble
In the boughs
Of the yawning tress,
The lifting waves
Of the hampered grass,
The fading of
The cricket's revelry
Paving way
For the cacophonous harmony
Of chirping birds;
And there was something sublime
Inside the chromospheres
Of the fulmination of life.
Something supple as
The battering of eyelashes
That is all the same surreal
That it can set forth
Colossal waves to another
Acknowledging eye.
Unfortunately,
Only a lionhearted soul
Could grapple this in sentience
Without suffocating the feral splendor.
In the belly of the shuddering abstraction
Lies a pristine vista
Of an olive pond.
It was making billowing ripples
Instigated by a pink unwavering tongue.
Massive paws rested on the fringes
Of the sodden aqueous mirror,
Serpentine tail wags in svelte grace,
And tuft suspicious ears
Twitch invariably as
An immensely sized and aloof head
Of gilded ropy hair
Bows into the mirror.
The steely gold orbits
That drown in the dithering cesspool
Mused on the pockmarks and scars
That squandered the dazzles
Of the tawny skin
He used to muse upon.
But then again,
With every roll of the undulating water,
He had seen the forest bloom
In a looming dance of ethereal flames
In the unfathomable surface
Of the impenetrable membranes
Of the pond.
The forest emerged vigorously
In its sedentary breathing,
Cloying the qualms of a
Ferocious cat in the distorted
Reflection of the pond
Of delusions.
The lion's heart was made of glass,
Frangible and brittle;
His bones were hollow
And they constantly quaver.
The lion's heart roared and prowled
Ripping the evanescence
Of both anguish and bliss.
The lion was weak
And easy to topple
But he burned of golden cinders
That spoke of a fervent desire
To stand in the front line of surrealistic
Crusades of heart
Without any remedy.
The forest has ears
And he can hear the vying
In every pounding of the forlorn chamber
Of the lion's heart.
The forest has eyes
And he can see the lion rising
Every time the sun would shatter
The mistral darkness of the eve
With zealous desire for life
In the verisimilitude of
The breaking dawn itself.
The forest had no tongue
But it had called the lion several times,
And the leaves pranced
For the wind to carry its message,
Brushing the laments of the lion.
The forest called him "The Lion of the Dawn".
And the forest could only brood
In the whim of each gloaming,
That he could never speak of
What the lion was
And no one would ever find
The lion in his lanky,
Unattractive and farcical veneer.
poem by Norman Santos
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A Distant Kind Of Love
A dove calls her mate in the moon
But a sea wind calls, go not to soon...
For the night is young in circles new
The waves are rolling deep and blue.
So' it is for you; the world was made
To lift your feathers above the wave!
So dip your wing tips in salt rock air
Brave a poles ivory stair; if you dare!
For it's here your true loves heart lies
Anchored beneath the lustrous skies
Wave over wave- wing on wing!
The dove white creature clung, curing...
Until the sun in past shadows flame
Up and blessed the birds dead name
For the night is young in circles new
The waves are rolling deep and blue.
Wave over wave- wing on wing!
That dove white creature sort to cling...
Curing... deeper and deeper
Rolling... deeper and deeper
The little dove flew
To the heart of the moon,
To that part of the moon,
That could be you...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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An Error in Creation
There was once a man who made a weird machine,
Employing dynamite and kerosene.
His subsequent destruction
Was a matter of deduction,
And a circumstance that might have been foreseen.
This gloomy incident I merely state
In case you have a yearning to create.
In which event, be wary,
Else, mayhap, a sad quan-dary
Will arise and face you when it's far too late.
Now, take the case of Toryphat, M.P.,
Created by the voters - you and me.
Then in matters legislative
He becomes, in turn, creative.
And creates a Deakook Fusion Ministree.
You will notice that this question, as a whole,
Is a matter over which we've some control;
For, it we'd contemplated
Ere the members we created,
We would not have landed things in such a hole.
And, in regard to this strange Ministree,
We are the folk responsible, you see.
For it couldn't have existed
Had not some of us assisted
In creating its supporters - Q.E.D.
Then, when a weird political machine
Of Tory flare and Fusion kerosene
Blows our policies to blazes,
All our most embittered phrases
Won't recover e'en the smallest smithereen.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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If You Can't Leave It Be, Might As Well Make It Bleed
What you found so upset you
Never saw it coming did you
Its easy to be surprised
With both your eyes sewn closed
Handled with great precision
Another faultless execution
Youre the subject of this exhibition
A willing cadaver, a willing cadaver
Scalped, saturated, made whole again
These cutes are leaving creases
Trace the scars, fit the pieces
Tell youre story, you dont need to say a word
Call off the cavalry
Cant save a wretch like me
Clean this with kerosene
If you cant leave it be, might as well make it bleed
Scalped, saturated, made whole again
Your wires are frayed, cant fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to stand a fight
Theres something better wrong with you
Your wires are frayed, cant fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to fire right
Theres something better wrong with you
Your pulse is anemic, youre tired of the fire
Youre bruising too easily, and falling behind
And no one is waiting for you
And no one is waiting for you
And no one is waiting for you
And no one is waiting
And no one is waiting for you
For you, for you
Call off the quarantine
Cant save the rest for me
Clean this with kerosene
If you cant leave it be, might as well make it bleed
Scalped, saturated, made whole again
Your wires are frayed, cant fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to stand a fight
Theres something better wrong with you
Your wires are frayed, cant fire right
You look better when out of sight
You were not made to stand a fight
Theres something b
song performed by by Dashboard Confessional
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Philadelphia Revised
The sad images of Philadelphia popped out of my eyes today
And I could see the streets of Philadelphia where the homeless sleeps
And freeze to death
While Politicians, doctors, Dentists, lawyers, teachers, and nurses get rich
Day by day
But the homeless freeze to death in the streets of Philadelphia and even die
But I have to ask all of you fellow americans where is your heart?
And doesn't charity starts at home first?
Don't you have anything at home that you could give away to the Homeless so they could have something either to wear or to eat?
Why can't we feed the homeless?
I can't understand you fellow Americans?
Please put yourself in their shoes for a day and try to picture what do they Have to go throw everyday
Is it right for the homeless to sleep in the streets and freeze and eventualy Die in the streets of Philadelphia?
Would you fellow Americans go few days without eating?
I don't think so
Why should the homeless that lives in the streets of Philadelphia starve?
Fellow Americans it is time to think about others and not just yourself Because others live In America just like you
Fellow Americans do you have a heart?
Fellow Americans did you ever learned to share what you have with Others?
Fellow Americans America is a sad world because we waste 98% of our Food at home, restaurants, and supermarkets
And all that wasted food ends up in the dump
It is so ashame and so sad at the same time
But the truth is that we are running out of food
And there is not enough food to feed anyone in America
But the cost of food keeps going up
Because we have to pay the American farmers who plants the food and Transport the food to the supermarkets
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Into Emptiness Engulfing Emptiness
Still and silent
I rivaled the weather
like a weathercock
swaying with the squall
because my reticence
is soused in the kerosene
of broken amities
hauling an aversion
to trusting, to people
but the fire is compulsive
in the growing tedium
With eloquent words
I vied to unmake memories
but emptiness wasn't
an auspicious confidant
I hunger for company
underneath the diffidence
to fill the disemboguing
ravine of quintessence
I wallowed haplessly
like an eternal child
fumbling for the thread
that leads the way out
these labyrinthine walls
but Theseus' tapestry
remained unwoven
for Ariadne remains
forged and elusive
So my soul caromed
into a deterred ballet
I vied for irony
as I swayed with the farce
and molted with the mediocre
like a writhing moth
searching for its home
in the light of a fire
and its perilous beauty
until my gusts abate
and my wings fold
into the cobwebs
of my shabby struggles
While the blood seeps out
and empties the bones
hollowness was generous
to submerge the lilt
of my coruscating laments
and then there was
nothing at all -
emptiness gnawing
the empty home
ensconced in an empty home.
poem by Norman Santos
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3 Legged Races
The insulated melody
Of the dripping spigot
And the restless weather vane
Drops tranquility in fathoms
That can make an ocean
Vast of wondering
Instigating a stride
Into a walk, a haste, where
Another leg is welcomed
Whilst you endure the lack
Of company in the ethereal
Highway of romantic jargons
And the tales in your skin
Ran down like the insulated melodies
Of disquietude devoid of
Tranquility, it flashes down
Like virulent kerosene
Sifting through lacerations
And yearning saliently
To burn the virgin lamentations
Reckon infinitely and
Convince the maladies
To crawl back in the nightmares
That haunts on unconscious states
And vie to steadfast into
The eager eyes riveted
In the horizon where
You belong and these thoughts
Ousted, run in a steady pace
Unencumbered by another leg
And do not trip crumbling
To lose their paces
Into the vale, faceless
poem by Norman Santos
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Behind Your Motorbike
Your not so subtle
sagacious whims
cradled in brass knuckles
flummoxed
when you stripped
the callused skin
into a brusque
mad sea
of enigmatic
enthralls -
Have you seen
the albatross shuffled
its seaward compass
inveigled to your
thermal fan?
Where were you
behind the machine
that bludgeons
your words -
a rivulet of
well juggled daggers
double-edged
gambles?
Inside a chamber
stale as brittle bones
but the vulnerability
exonerates
the shy lacquer.
As you basked
in the piquant taste
of squalor
in your red cigarette
concealed behind
the blearing smoke
and the dry beer
rummaging
with you words,
Your soul -
soused in a quagmire
of kerosene
awaits for a fire
to ignite
your oblivious nights
We basked in the luxury
of your hidden empire
and wager for the sight
of its saluting banners
The air sculling
into your body
as you tear the streets
in a moonless night
in your motorbike
sifts into
a comely rubble
So stretch your arms
and let the cold
gnaw unto
the intoxication;
Let the shadows
cast themselves
in cobwebbed strings
but do not run
away;
And do not chase
the beacons of your
headlights
Just breathe in
for today
and spew the cheap thrills
for these shabby
little heavens
perched upon
your reticent palms
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who Is This God Fellow And What's The Reason Why
Who is this God Fellow
And what’s the reason why
Did he murder the last poet
When he thought to cry
Who is this God Fellow
And what’s the reason why
Dose he never leave the gated community
Of his heaven in the sky.
Who is this God fellow
And what is his gig
It seems to me that he and his priest
Got the whole damn thing rigged
Is he a prince or a pauper a pusher or a pimp
That dose his jealous thing reveal
To me while I smoke a bit of hemp.
Who is this God fellow
Is he married to human by the power of a prayer
And why is it that he should even care
Who is this God fellow and what’s the reason why
Did he murder the last poet when he thought to cry
Who is this God fellow and why are his blessings to live
Only by the hands of priest that are stingy to give
Who the reason and what’s the reason why
That a small rain should collect in his eyes.
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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