The Skull Or the Buddha

The sleeping lambs nestled in the Silver bullet, Hot from the gun. They slumber through the sketches Of Spain until finally The veil of moisture meets plum lipstick And it’s time to depart; Time for the slaughterhouse. They scurry out from their earthy tomb And venture to what’s beyond the gun’s chamber And easy womb. Beady eyes flinch- I want to be part of the herd! O but that is only possible In this foreign land If your dust forms the bricks Or your skull is being sold For £16 And has its righteous place on the shelf. Being used as an amusing bookend Along with serene Buddha. To accept this binding contract is to understand That we must question our obsession To look like children or a withered old hag. Not many souls wander the labyrinth like mine, I guess they cannot commit their essence To the stables and chambers Where one nibbles on the carcasses Of forms and blinks At the silent wide eyed lambs.