Who can say what lies beneath the roses?
Is it Cleopatra’s asp? The bird who fell from her nest?
A troll who insults and violates you?
A god who gives up all the patterns?
It wasn’t long ago yesterday
the world was preparing to burn
and now it is burning:
Colored heroes of color excoriated.
What's the difference I don't know.
History, I guess, is full of colors
tribes dislike you seek to dismiss.
The succession of power is desperate
as a presidential tyro
excoriating heroes
before hanging his head like a dog--
crucifixion met with that peculiar human spice
of sympathy ambivalence
confusion blame best served
on a soft body
with coffee first morning.
Good luck.
Don’t mind the kinky twists.
In one antechamber of nightshade
you'll find a safe place to sleep
with gumbo, lamb loin
and lobsters at Christmas.
Big fucking mansion-thing
best-possible cookware.
A cocktail of remedies
dreamt up by our finest pharmacists
to keep you from desisting
to a corner of abandoned allies
and generational crime.
Old fat and healthy, I grew.
In this way (and a psychic canopy
manifest in a lack of survival skills)
I could never secede to Nunavut.
My love for Lafcadio, Gaughin--the true freaks
is unquestioned.
But for me, the roses
looked pretty at twilight.
Admiring eyes were disappointed.
Over here by the pond
I cried I'm boring as Burchfield!
Vivaldi! I'm uglier than Poe!
--------------------------------------------
Who knows what you'll do
in a labyrinth made of such memories
again in gardens of your ultimatum
considering the devils' lurid whispers
invade every chamber
and blame your mother XXX.
In a cul-de-sac philosophers foresee themselves
tragically spawning
generations of slave owners
villains victors victims
spitting cobra-invective
people like us believe--
Get on your knees for the military parade!
Say good night to rock n’ roll!
And they cry when they look at you wondering
did you poison the air?
You may be knifed in a parking lot outside a Wendy’s.
You may be quietly given polonium.
You may just not know what the hell is going on
and doin great, whatever man.
My stock is doin great.
Who knows. Who knows?
Who knows what lies beneath the roses?
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