deepundergroundpoetry.com

Scary that Mary wasn't a whore, she pleased Jesus and then more

Snap my fingers, black magic lingers,  
Lightning flashes and the sky above my eyes cracks  
Like the crescendo track of a country singer.  
Conquering across the country was a real hungry scene  
 
Until I met Mary Magdalene  
Proceeded with visions obscene  
Past the shadow of death's ravine  
And the guillotine of Nazarene  
 
To steal this queen from off the scene.  
A wounded left-winger too soon to swoon  
This mudslinger just had to be sure.  
No cure for a view through booze  
 
Too interred to slur my words.  
Straight sex leaves nothing obscured.  
Sin only begins with a viewer’s lens impure.  
Go fill your Depends filthy close-minded cur!  
 
Faded and hazy, drunkenly swaying  
In a lazy breeze Mistress Magdalene  
Slipped behind the scenes  
But I'm too tipsy to pull an identity,  
 
The tip of grace even when so shitfaced  
I’m hardly seeing in 3D. My mistake?  
Wasn't in the risk to take  
But the fix of fate for this pirate rake  
 
To introduce undercover and seduce the mother  
2 millenium tried to uncreate,  
Whose palate and pate  
Painted from between her legs  
 
Medieval to modern history of late:  
Every native land spanked,  
Depraved life span ended by man's hand  
Christianity ever did take.  
 
While no mumbling punk or clumsy stumbling drunk  
I wasn't faking being so faded as to mistake the maiden face  
Of the triumverate of HeCATE and Ishtar out of EuphrATES.  
All the distrust of truth left to rust like a junkie spoon,  
 
History held underground too soon  
'Til the sound swelled from deep in her  
Bellows and under 'em  
Like the spells of colors I taste and smell  
 
After eating my enemy's cerebellum.  
Expounding to exploding and outpouring  
Her crooning voice fell on ears deaf to the Hell  
They brought on themselves.  
 
All I could hear was the agony of the years,  
Searing like the fears expecting their own back.  
Like reflections of collections  
Of dismembered tender members,  
 
Precious ages to remember, smoldering embers  
Of noses and ears I see in the eyes and tears  
Of every home grown to pray,  
Thrown away, mowed like whey  
Where scimitars slayed, bones ground  
 
Into pavement faded gray child of the crusades.  
You historical editorialists are so fucking gay!  
Magdalene spotted my play, sashayed my way  
Said "You speak ignorant and honest  
Like a cunning linguist on chronic and that's okay."  
 
A dead ringer for a folk singer  
Who left her mark through the days  
I said "You're Joan Baez?  
 
Or Janis Joplin!" as my mind started popping.  
She smiled and said "Just Mary."  
Off the charts and STILL chopping  
I said "Mary?! Where's Peter and Paul?"  
 
Because the Renaissance came to a crawl,  
Set me to fall for those who saw it all  
Sent the blight before my sight.  
Now returned, interred, prepared  
 
Where the despair of witches burned  
Churned the soil where rustic truth toiled  
So their blues spoiled in a melting pot boiled  
Would earn a groove in matriarchal martial attitude,  
 
Music impartial to patriarch's theocratic tragic arc.  
Exponential potential lost in intergenerational stunted start,  
Runts of mental warts when hypocritical old farts  
Made it so...  je ne veux pas ces reves...  I say no!  
 
Pass! Insist to erase this! Although the past  
Misses its place to exist  
It says so in every vicious missive.  
I didn't ask to roll subliminal splits.  
 
At first it was just a front it seemed,  
But thirst at once unwinded curtain seams,  
Blind yet certain from behind the scenes.  
I sought to shunt the stream,  
 
I do not want these dreams.  
A karma crash perhaps  
From a wobbly drunk,  
Code of Hammurabi punk,  
 
Naughty chode monk  
Praying that my days  
Would be made with paying  
The toll that fits from the days I stole shit.  
 
Absconded to survive on it,  
To jive, striving to ride the tide,  
Running chronic, gunning short con lists.  
My lifewish read like crimson mist  
 
With dizzy twists, frighteningly elastic  
Like light refracted  
Through prisms' magic  
Crystal tryst. Honest & intuitive  
 
But too primitive I never got it right  
So say a prayer for me tonight  
If it justifies slicing subliminal sleights.  
The toll of self-righteous  
 
Indignance if brought to light.  
No roll Loki! Not tonight, mon ami.  
I don't know how to console your control  
So get on and find another entity  
 
For symbiosis in prose  
To hit with your wishlist.  
The exposure of tyranny  
In the improper imploder  
 
Of the mirror-me tragedy  
In an asshole offendee's malady  
REQUIRES me as an E.M.T.  
To melody their insecurity  
 
When held above me, a projection  
Of self-collection like early 3D  
Before ILM, LucasArts, LSD set it free.  
 
Mary said "Whooooa! That's not me,  
Mary Magdalene you see,  
That's the missed vision of derision in Christianity."  
 
I said "Hoooold your tongue,  
Younger hunger of a Mother,  
Edified, sanctified, fit to be tied,  
Yet still getting laid Maid  
 
And golden rustling, silently hustling,  
Violently enlivened wisened Crone!  
Hold your tongue,  
Young Mother, Maiden and Crone!  
 
Hoooold your tongue once there  
with the speed of your earlier trembling despair,  
Minus the mad-dog stare.  
I really wanna' hear you scream and moan  
"Whoooooa!" again from right there."  
 
Mary bespells me to fall, so where again is Peter and Paul?  
 
Because alcohol drowns sorrows,  
Found or borrowed, Peaks adventures,  
Speaks for unmentionable pressure  
Harrowing treasures from hallowed ground  
 
Since before pleasured pharaohs were around,  
Swallowed as an expenditure followed or scrounged  
Leading to sodden ground like hollow point rounds.  
And blind Bible miles migratory followers to this story  
 
Won't be sorry for the sound  
Or worry that you and I met,  
Just where we're both later found.  
Time travel once an oddity  
 
Of the brilliantly naughty only.  
In clues left from future news  
Undisguised diatribe from blogs  
Of rich and lonely, as yet written,  
 
Orally restoring historical kittensmirks  
With an outlaw's sure allure.  
Begging for cures more certain and impure  
Than murderous verse, no worry more terse  
 
When generations from the future  
Returned to secure a vision for me to fix this first!
Written by LokiOfLiterati
Published | Edited 17th Jan 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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