The Who

Is it far fetched when garments garner stars flesh
and lets us ponder upon the comets last wish?
Ask what,
basking sun rays plagued by the darks star dust,
The WHO must have mustered the blues before us.
The WHO said it, I meant choose your sedative son,
when I see babies playing in mud pools fooling truth and loosing their youth young,
It’s done, the WHO came and laid the moon down,
look as love comes front of your cheque book crooked frown.
Took it to heart sharp with eyes round,
Can’t I part your mind and die where your souls found?
round and round, the WHO keeps spinning time bound,
down and down pounded out of blind clouds.
Who are we proud of?
This time the WHO is present and let’s find the past tense
fenced in denial.
I penned it in a whisper, slipping through her blistered eyes,
Child, why???
Shelled in misfit lines, this citrus bride marred to part divine,
farther than the WHO spooled through Cupids rise.
Few knew the putrid hoofs might,
shackled lucid in the truest moonlight,
soon danced on faceless graves, hatred trailing blue in hindsight,
labelling proof and arrived at, the WHO must have gave us life!
Save us, when days tripled sixteen ways gave us night,
described in mystique and killed his bride,
misread Exodus, hence the plead to fight,
need for peace corps, he brought signs in section five,
dissected by, live mimes directed by the silent hype,
neglect the WHO???
Shit, we already tried.
Who blew the moon out?
Rippled through the groove, proving the fool shouts,
about the clock tick writing down wicked doubts,
slipping through the rooms mouth.
He moved to mind play tracing the true route,
bound to find it here.
Louder than the angels whisper rain in natures ear,
Has the frown finally disappeared?
Hades teach us, these teeth are aching to tear your flesh,
Where were we when HE graced Eve with breath?
Placed me to teach and I gave each a page from the sacred text.
The WHO knew we’d ask and blessed each with legs,
hence the Wiseman who takes his pain to bed
and wakes a fool taking the day to death,
praying some may but they hang before he even breaks a sweat.

© Myles Dacus 2013

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