Sooooooo POETRY, right? Like, I write it from time to time, and sometimes it rhymes. I mean, as I’ve said before, I’m more about confronting and subverting conventionality. But every now and then you have to remember what it is exactly that you’re subverting. And really, this is STILL a pretty subversive poem.
Blood on the Rug
The downward looking compass leads us to the fields
Where giant, fluffy kitties meow to us for food
But we do not have visions for fish or for milk
So we can only pet them, listen to them purr
But sometimes in their purring, God will speak to us.
We sing a song unto Him, borne within our hearts
We ask him for direction, send to us a sign
A DIETY eternal, one who is divine
But God does not yield to us what we wish to have
Turns his golden face away, stripes us with a laugh,
And leaves us grounded. Writhing, fast in gloom and muck,
We tear at our own faces, our blood on the rug.
Blood on the rug, tears on our cheeks,
Lead in our souls, nowt may we seek.
Would we but have a giant frog,
To him bow as holy God.
But the only relic we have
Is our own blood.
On the rug.
. . . . . . .
I know: pretty fucking awesome. You’re welcome.