Solitude, Save my Skin By Josh Griffin

I am an angelheaded hipster

-especially eccentric-

writingwritingwriting

backwards words somehow making sense

while sitting on grass ground

beneath metallic sky

contemplating the human seraphim

and Moloch’s participation

with every pig in three piece suits

trees tying themselves in knots

to hide from the innumerable chainsaws

of the industrial environmental genocide

the invisible hand that wishes to see the world

(or most of it)

burn and slowly fade into

mushroomcloud existence

I am sitting in

boxcarsboxcarsboxcars

waiting for unknown odes to be sung

and to touch every conceivable pore

and faint hint of poverty in my

broken bared naked body

crying for poor Karl

who lived

lonely

lovely

writing banned manifestos

sparking revolutions

that bourgeois committed unconceivable violet suicide

by jumping through holy windows

landing on the harsh reality of

Absolute Reality

I am praying in my communistic cathedral

-a breeding ground for those old union hymns-

saluting the workers class

waiting for May Day and every socialism parade

that wanders down

Nowhereville, USA

getting lost in the most simple shantytowns

beggingpleadingcrying

for the sweet lips of ecstasy

to kiss the innocent lips

of young girls and boys

and expect them not to tell

unnatural

imaginary

hallucinations

of the things that passed

I am a perception of the satirical irony

-born out of the merciless suburbs of obscene beings-

while enduring unthinkable hell under rooftops

secret cannabis campfires

keep the hidden third eye of transcendentalism

occupied with numbers and figures

dancing

morphing mental pictures

that appear on sacred floors

only to be seen by the true believers in the power of human mind

I am producing pathetic poetry

consisting of weak slant rhymes and

millionsmillionsmillions

of alliterations alluding

to the allseeing eye of the fauxpas god

and his deity friends that constantly laugh

at pitiful human attempts to seek help to free themselves

of shitstained lives mixed with the passing fads of pointless generations

“all history and fashion shall repeat itself” says the fashion designer with blank eyes and purple cheeks

claiming to know all about sequins and demigods

can’t they see it’s all false! it’s all crazy! it’s all a dream!

[Via http://lifeasahole.wordpress.com]