“The Chronicle of the Timeslaves”

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, July 17, 2011 Under: Rhymed Verses


The children of cholera laugh at you in apparent aptitude
Stranded in a lair on Babel’s moon -
The eyes of the infidel remain staring back at you

“Ayatollah dipped in zinc - iron toga tinted pink…”

The most impure of the tree czars - his swollen physique parched
He’d conduct yoga on a green plain with supernovas in each palm
He told of besieged arks - the frozen thrones of the sea larks
On an ocean of beach barbs filled with coral reefs infested by boreal leech moths
The lifeblood of the lynch mob’s Moorish regime guards
War festers in Worchester, bless ya, and tell the lords of the Jihad
Feel free to engorge in mesquite sauce; he tinkered with the chocks from the start
Before the Bourgeoisie flock could retort -
Who? You must be either lost or a corpse, or trying out for the part
The answer is, of course, the flesh carpenter with a turquoise clock for a heart
A sour taste followed like margarine caught in his breathing apparatus’s stalk
The moment he caught wind of marginal droughts through devious speech
Pinot Noir flowed from the open cartilage Argus's carnage had caused… the previous week
Please pardon the clause, I hope you’re pleased with this feast -
It rained cat tongues and slum dogs in a mist of medicinal plum wine
Cirque de Civilization was born when Death was resurrected to sap life
As Sumerian magi rowed forth in long robes on longboats destined to capsize
Nests of beggars and thespian rabbis ingested nectar to pass time
The shaman of Kashmir’s eyes much like the bezel inside a mesmerist’s bagpipe
Holy harbingers, ensure Dorothy’s house landed in Mumbai - land of mammoths and bonsai
Kiwi splashes forever fused with the slowly undulating melon hued mandarin sunrise
Canyons of melanin blue… as cannibal fungi attempted to genetically dilute Rosetta’s roots
Behold a pale horse, empirical soldier ants add radish to the farm spiel
Salvaging the cornmeal, camera poised for the fascist’s doing cartwheels
Before the dawn of judgment day, paupers were born from saucers in the crypt’s keep
Since the dark crusades of Artemis's killstreak, cloud surfers became martyrs of the Indies
There wasn’t this much talk of walking deities since Gandhi in the fifties -
From seven’s travels, entrenched in battle he harnessed the chakra of the sixth sea
I hope you enjoyed this chronicle, you pip-squeaks..
The barter of the king’s speech -
The black swans gently bobbing in a brisk breeze..
Bitch, please -
YOU decide if I deserve an Oscar for this shit, peace…

The children of cholera laugh at you in apparent aptitude
Stranded in a lair on Babel’s moon -
The eyes of the infidel remain staring back at you

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In : Rhymed Verses 



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