Morning Song for the Damned

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by fosty, Sep 30, 2014.

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  1. fosty

    fosty Well-Known Member

    Morning Song for the Damned (Part One)

    This morning I awake
    And in the Riverbed I bake
    So while all around me shining
    Is my Sun, so dearly climbing
    And I greet her nature smiling
    As the furnace greets the Snake

    So I offer up my challenge
    To the wisdom of her carriage
    But her wisdom is the branding
    Of my head as I am standing
    With my greater understanding
    In the sight of her neglect

    Then down the River I am sent
    On some clean and Holy bent
    And as I walk upon the Water
    And I think upon the slaughter
    And I hear her heady laughter
    In my head appears a dent

    Now here’s an abscess in the making
    For unhappy cultivating
    That requires a giant pander
    To my bamboo eating candour
    And a slothful fat reminder
    That I’m certified in bed

    Whiskey and sodomy are free
    It’s a sailor’s life for me
    For in a Riverbed of Brandy
    Where the hands are getting randy
    And the Sun is setting slowly
    All the way to gay Paree

    Someone’s fucking me with caution
    But the pain is an abortion
    For upon a most peculiar coast
    I squeezed his hand and made a toast
    And kissed his sweetly fretting face
    And handled him with greatest ease

    I cooked up my feet
    I made them bleat
    And on the desert sands I wandered
    And I daydreamed and I pondered
    For depression I had funded
    With my ignorance, so neat

    And I was no longer in the boat
    I dressed myself in a Porcupine coat
    I raised shields and my Cattleprod was Go!
    My eyes could melt through metal, wood and water, flesh and snow
    I was the star attraction of a deathless one man show
    I was my own little Bloodhound

    And I slept the sleep of the gay
    And I slept the dawn and I slept the day
    And I dwelt upon one leg
    A fat Flamingo on a keg
    Slept my Godforsaken life away

    And in the town I met the dead
    And the rumour of the dead
    And the softly rotting dead
    And the fleshy little dead
    For when there’s no more room in Hell
    The dead will stay in bed

    And the Waters, they will rot
    And the Trees, they will rot
    And the arguments will rot
    And missionaries rot
    And Gideon asked from his hotel draw
    Will I rot now I am hot?

    And cemeteries dance
    And skeletons will dance
    And teeth, they will dance
    And Catholics, they dance
    And so my horny little Toads
    I will dance upon a lance

    But autumn air is coloured blood
    And hands and feet are drenched in blood
    And eyes and noses stream with blood
    And stone and forests reek of blood
    I’m thinking manic thoughts of time
    And blood is in my cud

    I promptly fell in love with Hell
    I sank all visions down the well
    And in my darkness I sweetly dwell
    And in my hotness I darkly smell
    And stinking of forbearance
    I dimly, deeply, darkly, fall in love with Hell

    And I circle my cheerful old ways
    And down and down I plunder
    And I live in hot forgetfulness
    And in frozen furnaces I blunder
    And I wake and I quake
    And I snivel and shake
    And I erupt downwards
    And I wake

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