The Road Without Tarma
Humming of unattainable immortality
Laughing through our ears, it is
The old silly box, singing
On an aged wooden stand.
Lurking in our large front room.
Hard are legs of charity,
Buckled, then walked I'm used for his front, to be shown-
While he brings children their doom.
Savagely, degrading and then murdering his hunt,
Are children who play alone
The road without any Tarmac.
My black collar I was tied
My jaws tightly wired
And then later at the house,
I'm given a large helping
The latest hewn prepubescent flesh, I understand
I am helping clean the mess.
And then without once retching
I finish up all he brought from the road in his sack.
Later I lay down upon
The rug in the front room, doing my usual habit
Of listening to the large box's silly singing
Whilst chewing on a new bone
Then, between the hums, I saw
The long dirtied road's end and
The opening of Hades,
Wider, deeper than any whore,
Filled with faces from the papers I always
Carry to him in my jaw.
It smells like the tasty road treats left by other slaves
Unlike me, all the faces detest the smell of shit
So I proceed to burrow
Osama Bin Laden appears, gives a smile then waves.
Saddam Hussein flies lower,
Knowing that the four thousand year old tale still remains
Listen, hear Abraham groan
He has been nailed to the farthest darkest reach of wall
With not one way to harrow
Him, from his self-made tomb.
For stealing from his fore-fathers of the sun-lit land.
Betraying our light in darkness. With eyes burning
He looks down at their faces.
Whilst their faces gaze upward
Toward me, as I still faced
For most of them it would be like listening back to
They see their new truer form
Large and little dirtied dogs,