Why the lack of dirges
And not headstones
You can't credit urges
Nor rampant cellphones

Blame the composers
Wait, could be equal
Where also performers
Are dead to a sequel

Young creative beasts
Often do not last
To partake in feasts
Of their snipped off lyric past

So most died
Outside of their time
To allow the tide
Erasure of rhyme






 

I left the cloister
Not wanting to leave
But death hid as a foister
Sneaking up my sleeve

Too many years later
A stranger told me
That he would cater
A spiritual spree

In that place
Up near the Bronx
I couldn't face
The presence of skunks 

I considered the unicorn
And that unique goblet
Unable to scorn
Nor even be upset

For the cloister knows
Life’s succession 
As future grows
Through individual recession

Now I return
Late at night
While candles burn
In my blind spot light sight

The birds have retired
Even jets not by altitude
Choking atmosphere they both inspired
Their chirpy booming breath conclude

It darkens
With every breath
Many a gold dot hearkens
Airy depth

Maybe resurrection
Crosses you mind
Temporal deflection
Of the predictable kind

There are no attacks
No predators
No doctrinal retracts
Just Illuminati ambassadors

Going on dates
Where love becomes violent
And sealing their fates
Hence the birds are silent

Not old
Nor young
Story yet told

Road to 
Death
Surprises so

Spell check
Hackneyed
What the heck

Loose composers
Tickling ivory
Lose trousers

Maybe it was deer
Or a fox
I'm not certain
The last time
Perhaps a rock

Plants received
A nod eternal
So I stood
Not among the tall wood
But short greens

For each I prayed
Easily stunned
That my attempt
Was a sneeze
Echoing in the trees

For plants
Could care less
Of an attempt to bless
Their dominance
Accept acceptance

I can't believe
Tricks running 
Down my sleeve
Headed up
Horny pup
Go retrieve
Be cunning
Then relieve

Then the rug
Existing still
No drug
Might erase
The deface
The tug of a slug
Whose will
Conquers inner space

Schmutzie Polka Hop
An Austrian doo wop
Or a euro hip hop
When did it stop?

On the Heights
One of many nights
Ere native sights
Considered blights

But it is Google
Heights not oogle
Dog poodle
Whom to canoodle?

It’s now a spay
The cellar a way
To play
With the next fray

He’ll make you socially skid
No not flip your lid
He’s too culturally intrepid
To follow any old line insipid

His eyes
Seek no video reprise
His walks random devise
Always an expected surprise

And he is brave
Every culture and knave
To unenslave
That’s what we all might crave

Follow his walks
Drop your buds when he talks
Reality he honestly hawks
Citizens don't be dorks 

A saint told me to leave
What’s up your sleeve
I won't grieve
Because you can't believe

Well, he said that
At least it’s what
I concluded at
The end of his conversat

Ion the charged lion
Broke by his scion
Went to try on
New rationalization

The saint was wrong
I sung his song
Applauded by the throng
Who all along

Wanted to relieve
What they perceive
On Christmas eve
The tale they'll weave