deepundergroundpoetry.com
Was Mona Lisa...
Was Mona Lisa a harlot?
Red splatters along the lines of my palm,
rub it away with my pale thumb.
A shiver of cold takes the breath of one hundred children,
echoing in the shapeless home of conception.
How did the tiny, unfigured ball form?
In its quiet home of pink walls and blood and water,
a mid-wife to the bastards of the modern day,
a rug of wool to warm his youthful breast.
We know not what we do.
We know not the oath we make to the electric system of illegal substance.
What is this law we crack anyway?
Where are the stars that fell from Heaven to make black holes in our harlot sky?
We sell, we buy, we love, we loathe, we condemn and forgive for these brides of time and husbands of space know no mercy for the law we find in our own morality.
When all is said and done have we been the angel or the demon in the soiled bedsheets,
and will our mirror, that dug and drugged its way to our soul, handle the reflection it has to show?
A painting,
for the Tate,
for the history books,
for the Lords of ten thousand religions be,
good or bad,
the most beautiful creation of all.[/font]
Red splatters along the lines of my palm,
rub it away with my pale thumb.
A shiver of cold takes the breath of one hundred children,
echoing in the shapeless home of conception.
How did the tiny, unfigured ball form?
In its quiet home of pink walls and blood and water,
a mid-wife to the bastards of the modern day,
a rug of wool to warm his youthful breast.
We know not what we do.
We know not the oath we make to the electric system of illegal substance.
What is this law we crack anyway?
Where are the stars that fell from Heaven to make black holes in our harlot sky?
We sell, we buy, we love, we loathe, we condemn and forgive for these brides of time and husbands of space know no mercy for the law we find in our own morality.
When all is said and done have we been the angel or the demon in the soiled bedsheets,
and will our mirror, that dug and drugged its way to our soul, handle the reflection it has to show?
A painting,
for the Tate,
for the history books,
for the Lords of ten thousand religions be,
good or bad,
the most beautiful creation of all.[/font]
Published 10th Jan 2011
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Anonymous
10th Jan 2011 11:47pm
I'm sorry that I have not read you before, as this poem is marvellous, so now I feel like I've been missing out. Almost every sentence holds wisdom, some unique insight. My only qualm is a grammatical thing:
"...it's quiet home"
There shouldn't be an apostrophe there. Apostrophes should only be used when the word is an abbreviation; for instance, "it is" becomes "it's," or "you are" becomes "you're."
I look forward to reading much more of your work!
"...it's quiet home"
There shouldn't be an apostrophe there. Apostrophes should only be used when the word is an abbreviation; for instance, "it is" becomes "it's," or "you are" becomes "you're."
I look forward to reading much more of your work!
Thank you, Jack! I'm really happy you've commented - Your work is brilliance so your critique will be taken and I will edit accordingly. Thanks again =]
