The Road Without Tarma

By

Humming of unattainable immortality

Laughing through our ears, it is

The old silly box, singing

Away

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,

Which

Are children who play alone

On

The road without any Tarmac.

By

My black collar I was tied

My jaws tightly wired

Shut.

And then later at the house,

I'm given a large helping

Of

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.

Shit.

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

Uncompleted.

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

Downward,

For most of them it would be like listening back to
A,

Echo

They see their new truer form

Large and little dirtied dogs,

Like

Me.