The pseudo-sainted sought to earn acclaim
And gather glory to a sainted name
That he might greatly thereby grow his fame,
Though he may be a sacrificial goat
Thrown to the slaughter while the others gloat
Who at Stupid God’s table feast and bloat,
An offering to show the left the right
Can keep themselves still, standing in the light,
Hoping thereby to elide the blight
They represent, the one that plagues us all
Who seek to never be in that long hall
Where Stupid god conducts the running ball.
Distracting, they seek still to draw all in,
That Stupid God’s dominion might begin.
You know where it is… Map data from Google, you know…
Ragged breathing Throat raw from it When I can breathe Because it stops and starts again And I panic Ever so slightly Every time
How can I not?
For a bit of visual interest… Photo by Emre Can Acer on Pexels.com
The running will begin again And soon And I have no way to flee from it Fevered though my flight may try to be Yet such highs rarely fare well The descents from them Crashing down
If you’d like some writing done to order, let me know below!
They stand upon the plain with fist upraised
Amid the rain and think they offer praise
By buying pain to fill up others’ days
With coin they make with fire stoked by pages
That they have taken, stealing, while they rage
Who for their sake had spent both youth and age
In labor, hoping thus to wisdom spread.
But in those fires do those hopes lay dead,
And they spend and feed those fires without dread
Of what will come when all the coin is gone.
The debt to Stupid God they bear along
Will then come due, impoverish the throng,
Which would be well, would they suffer alone,
But they will not before Stupid God’s throne.
Leaning up against the bar and listening, watching, like his angel had told him before she took him up into the heavens.
Drink in hand, draining away slowly, savoring each sip just a little bit longer to keep a quiet peace inside.
But then the piano starts playing, and he knows this tune, this old standard of bygone days that still speaks in strains to ears not born since long after the composer died into the dust, man.
Synth plugs into amp, a toggle is flipped, and the mellow sound of a rubber-mouthpieced tenor sax swells up under the piano strokes, letting the keys lead and ringing along with them in a harmony bluer than the seas below, than the skies that they had left behind, cleaner than the corridors had ever been.
And the solo, when it comes, because it comes, steps carefully around where the keys part, and if it’s a mulligan, it’s one people are glad to have taken.
It’s a classic look. Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com
A quick couple of toggles, a perfect shift down to Eb from Bb, rubber becomes steel, and a nasty, guttural funk backbeat joins throbbing ivories and sopranino echoics, punching up counterpoint in visceral pulses, buzzsaws humming in short bursts behind.
Let them look and listen and wonder what else is there.
Eyes close, body rocks, and all creation falls away.
Lyrics shift and call for something further afield, and the progression of music follows along, swing to bop to funk and further forward.
A second key under the left thumb is pressed, and the music drops an octave, slapping bass with sawtooth wave from mimicry of well-cut cane punctuating in three-octave jumps and sudden falls protesting words, going low to accent the high and going high to fill the silences between.
Bliss, man. Who can know such joy as this?
Like the work I do? Want some done for you? Reach out; let me know who I’m talking to!
Again, it rises, that old pressing need
To lift up voices, resist the shrill screed
That children from that darkness must be freed
Of rolling dice and telling lies for fun,
Which in the minds of many has begun
To wrap them in a cult, a mighty one.
And yet, those who might be thought at its head,
Did such a thing exist, as not, have led
Themselves to folly, and those same have pled
That they themselves but jested, did not mean
To anger those on both sides of the screen
Who now themselves have started them to wean
Away from sagging tit and milk gone sour.
Stupid God, we hope, laments this hour.
You know what I’m talking about… Photo by Armando Are on Pexels.com
Like the writing that I do? Reach out; I can do some for you!
Again, the acolytes of Stupid God
Think to take into their hands the rod
With which to beat down others to the sod
That they may think them tall and mighty folk,
Even as they bend beneath the yoke
To bear the Stupid God. They are a joke
Told to a sober audience that stands
And does not laugh at loud-voiced drunks’ demands
Which, being met, despoil common lands
And legacies that would to children go.
How doubtful, now, that children e’er will know
What could have been! Instead, they now will grow
To forms far less than promise once had said,
Forced to go where Stupid God has led.
Why look behind them when the charlatans do not use them to hide? Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
Need help with writing, either making sense of it or making it happen? I can help you! Take 30 seconds to fill out the form below, and we can talk!
I feel myself becoming a bullfrog again Or the namesake of one whose friends raid the wine cellars Croaking madly disregarded in one of the many places where Eagles fly This one seated by a flinty river in a whitewashed limestone land
Clearly what I mean… Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com
The fait accompli is in place The thing already done And I know what is coming Have seen the sadness that will follow But I cannot say too much about it
Frogs are easily trodden underfoot Though they know more of the crowding flies than most And it is of small things whizzing through the air my croaking warns And others’ croaking
I hope that I am wrong I know that I am not And there is no blessing to follow after this hope The coming croaking gives the lie to Pope
I’m happy to write to order; if you’d like me to do so for you, take 30 seconds, fill out the form below, and we’ll talk!
Now Zibethicus commands a horde,
Ondatran menace striking up discord
As raveners with citrus, growing bored,
Look for some new distraction from their pain.
Even so, they dance in the long train
That Stupid God still leads, without refrain,
And in which the Stupid God does still delight,
Stumbling through each day into each night
And back again. The everlasting plight
Afflicts us all, both those who do not dance
And those who after Stupid God will prance
And, ass-like, bray upon the merest chance.
That which those donkeys pull behind, abjure,
Along with Stupid God and all its spoor.
Surely this is the only thing that it could be. The only thing. Photo by Fabian Willer, Follow my Instagramud83dudcf8ud83dude01 on Pexels.com
I’m pleased to write to order, ranging from short, formal poetry to longer works of prose. Sound like something you can use? Take 30 seconds and fill out the form below!
As the small snare drum sounds a tight roll again Tiny xylophone or glockenspiel accompanying it My hand reaches out to add a single percussive beat And do a little better than John Cage Though I have never been able to do the splits And my sunglasses are kept in the car
Rarely, if ever, this late… Photo by Oladimeji Ajegbile on Pexels.com
There is never enough time to take the time And I really ought not to interrupt the performance Making it stop and start again is no good thing for the gigging It is better for me if I simply leave off spectation Having other things to do in plenty And my own practice to which to attend
If you’d like me to write for you, take 30 seconds to fill out the form below, and we’ll discuss how I can help you with what you need!
Elliott RWI 