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Array
(
[sid] => 143125
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Dance He Has Aborted
[time] => 2008-06-11 06:15:10
[hometext] => This poem is mine from another website where I post: http://www.poemofquotes.com/members/author/loquist62&page=2. I have changed the title and altered two lines.
[bodytext] => He will die dreaming -- And forgo screaming. Stiff and rigor mortis, He will abort us. If there were angels, Their wings would droop. If the chickens could fly, They would flee the coop. In this, how-we-call, Mature modus operandi Of the fast-paced, He saw it fit to die. In this, how-we-call, Important impetus Of the fast-paced, He saw it fit to forget us. Death alighted on him, And he saw no king on the throne. He saw no elaborate dynasty. Death left him alone. He saw no sweeping bloodlines. He saw only the emaciated, rugged DNA of a double helix Degenerate -- and was unable to fix. In the ways of the world, powerless, But not powderless, feeling his status As a grain of sand, observing finicky vultures Among long-nested cultures, He saw that Darwin is not dead; He saw the elitist dogma reread And the reconnaissance statements unsaid, And the opposition confined to bed Because they were almost dead, Like Darwin said -- appointed inferior -- Despite their commensurate eyes, Despite their same guts and interior. This, how-we-call, Sober lifestyle He wanted to debunk. He taught us that we were drunk. I am glad, I am glad That he has abandoned the reign of the goof; He has left us aloof. In this dog-eat-dog Fiscal menagerie, With the price gouging incest, His leave is best. And he saw all of the ghostly borrows Without recompense, And he saw the ensuing sorrows, sorrows For the sky; for, they were immense. He saw the stockmarket convulse, As traced as a pulse, Saw the volatility swell, Saw the people go to hell. Called upon the Turlygods, Called upon the Upanishads, But they were busy with their staffs and rods, Mother goddesses singing Something passably symphonic, Allowed their delusions Because they are holey, holy, and yonic -- And Virgin Mary’s image is quick On the black pan -- nonstick -- Black and warm as a summer night, Black and warm as a wonderful fright, And all the steady lives it does indict. On that pan she sticks Among the nonsense statistics, The omens lucky to be online -- In a few newsworthy clicks. In this dog-eat-dogma world, He has been twirled, Been vaguely courted. But the dance he has aborted. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 144 [topic] => 43 [informant] => screwge [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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