It's All Up To The Winged Woman Of The Night-Eye Clan
Tall and
slim she once was The Search that purred
now herding
the last of the whimpering
beasts through abandoned villages of thatch
feral chicks run amok
She is following
The Man carrying The Book of Distant Galaxies
he is traveling with his baby owl
to the little
clay
Throne of Faith
elsewhere The Gatherers are already boarding the train
that casket of mildew
that moving nest of secret incubatina
O yeah
this is real hunger and not a game
the graceless alligator of life
plods along and
Death stops to scribble
on many a sooty shelter door
reminding her to keep the herd moving
to keep the rifle loaded
1 comment:
i'd like to know where you come up with some of this stuff... but that might tarnish the mystery - but tarnished mysteries are like irish wrist-watches - they tell all of the time some of the time
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