The Love song of Imagination

Part Four

 

By the time I had awoken,

there were things I had forgotten.

Yet I was filled with fear and dread,

on what roads had I tread?

What was it that I had done?

By whose rope was Jesus strung?

 

On his lips, there is yet a smile,

he stares at me with groggy darkened eyes,

his cheeks are hollow and a tooth is missing,

From his hands is the blood spilling.

 

He laughs at me like he is high,

I died for your sins you know.

This is my Second Coming,

my Glorious Resurrection.

 

Sorry to interject your idyllic banter,

Gate-crashing your party is all I am after.

This rope here cuts too tight,

I have been hurting throughout the night.

I lunge forward and grab his legs,

he laughs and forcefully rejects.

Do not worry for I am fine,

I have been practising since I was nine.

Jesus, Jesus O Lord of mine,

Your eyes are darker than sewer pools,

Your crimson shroud smells of rotten flesh,

please come down and have some rest.

 

Then we would proceed this meaningless chatter,

I think you deserve the break,

then you can guide me and I would do the rest.

 

Don’t you worry for I am just peachy,

I heard you are lagging behind on your coursework,

sit yourself down and do your homework.

 

Like I fucking care about that I say,

Oh please one should never curse,

mentioning a reproductive function is hardly a curse.

Are you pissed because even your mother didn’t get any?

 

In the tradition of Hellenic parthenons,

Father raped mother while he kept watch the other guy.

Yeah, but since it was your father, it doesn’t really count.

Yeah, true that, guess my father has pretty much fucked everyone.

Getting molested by God isn’t really rape.

 

Jesus if there is one thing that sums up religion,

its that rainbows are a fucking illusion,

You might even say it is a contemporary comparison.

Yet there is some good amidst the confusion,

I myself wasn’t the product of irreligion.

The problem lies with dogmatic stands of arbitrary precision,

and having conversations with your hallucinations.

That is quite coherent for someone in a constant state of inebriation,

which is exactly how I define dedication.

 

On better days I feel like Emperor Palaptine,

To find and consume all that is most definitely not mine.

Sometimes I have the sick urge,

to sic the heretics and clean and purge.

And often when such thoughts do merge,

I find myself a rather unpleasant man,

far too much of a coward to take a stand.

 

Jesus, I wonder where man’s honor is gone,

or if it was all just a con.

 

Everything good has been mutilated,

Everything bad horribly overpopulated.

Your church has become Satan’s nest,

mine sports a bloody crest.

Such a gloom prevails in the atmosphere,

the biggest sin is to be a philosopher.

 

Thinking is for pussies is the new motto,

how did we find ourselves in such a grotto?

 

There is not much point in writing arbitrary lines for the sake of completion.

Or thinking about some other mangy description.

I have started to feel like I have bitten off more than I can chew,

this is also pretty hot too.

Now whatever paths this prose meanders,

It would never be the same as me and her.

I will keep writing for it is an obsession.

This is not healthy is an obvious conclusion.

 

The blowing wind has subpar capacitation,

the heat would probably melt off any excitation.

I have started to lag behind as my thoughts have damped,

I am exactly where the wise ones camped.

 

This world is but a fatal nursery,

and our glances have so far been rather cursory.

This is why no one knows anything.

That doesn’t prevent them from weaving tales,

most of them sound pretty lame.

 

The whole objective of this exercise is to fail.

which is something I am pretty good at.

 

And we can set each other on as many paths as we like,

or we can start them whenever we like,

Even then there are undoubtable symmetries.

The past and the future are complementary.

 

Hiding in every corner, in plain sight,

Knowledge and observation are in every mind.

But dear God, there are a staggering number of books,

all but some have been written by crooks.

 

Every book read, there is one less we can read,

every path travelled is one less that we can tread.

 

Reminds me of the difference between distance and displacement. 

whatever we do we end up at the exact same moment.

Everyone is wrong and completely misguided,

our ancestors got it wrong at everything they trieded.

 

And there is no running away from the present,

so hard to conceive of other times.

I have noticed that I am getting preachy.

I must head off and cool my mind.