*Basilisk's Support Group*
On the train to nowhere.
Tracks leading to the end, of another bottle.
Down goes the soupeur, knowing where the express leads thee.
Remaining complacent in a steady, off the rails attitude fills the gaping truth.
Steady like a sawed-off snowman with the carrot on a stick.
Sewing breadknives into the vast chasm of self-righteousness.
The river flows, yet the tropics of Capricorn see to its dissipation.
Even the piper needs to water their shrubs, basilisk.
People like the thought of Karma
It gives justice some magic
They rule out Providence completely
I believe that is tragic
To them it's far fetched
That God can teach you a lesson
Or look down on creation
And find ways to give blessings
They want pain for wrongdoers
On a system like gravity
And to be paid for conscientiousness
Well again, that's a tragedy
Can the threat of a sharp knife erase someone's evil?
Can a carrot on a stick make bad people good people?
Be real...
GRAIL
each has their own prize
tucked away in a wish
deep in the inscrutable heart,
it rises from time to time
like a treasure only seen
by the eyes of innocents.
it rises up unbidden
to remind that there is more
than a, nose to the grind stone life.
allotted to a new babe as it is born,
a grail fantasy is implanted,
a carrot on a stick of sorts.
whilst we live, unaware for most
except, for the ants that
occasionally attack our thoughts
cause restless legs to strain at
the conformity accepted as life.
wanderlust without a goal.
daydreams that seem to have
no righteous home.
all dismissed as silliness
or insanity depending,
on the strength of the call
to leave the bonds of uniformity.
that golden seed we have from birth
is the poets goad,
the musicians lost chord
a writers perfect tale.
it is not for fame and glory that we seek
but for our holy grail.
My hubby is a workaholic,
he's addicted to his job
He loves to put in a lot of overtime,
tacked on to his normal 9 to 9
Working double shifts,
come holidays he never miss
He loves to stay late,
vacations he refuses to take
My man is a workaholic,
he never calls in sick
His boss don't have to put no carrot on a stick,
'cause he knows
my fella is gonna come to work quick, lickety split
Living with a workaholic
sometimes can be hard
I'm the one who has to mow the lawn,
and rake the yard
I'm the one who has to paint the house,
and walk the dog
But I suppose the worst thing of it all,
is that when he comes home,
he falls dead tired on the bed
Ain't no lovemaking gonna be done,
just the sound of snoring instead
I guess the best consolation prize is:
in this suburban castle, the crown sits on my head
Carrot on a stick
event horizon of self,
veils of ignorance...
Life's but a tired merchant,
devoid of all but the most barren, cracked wares,
peace is but a carrot on a stick,
in lands where poisonous, gaseous winds,
fly frightfully above the barren sands,
And the taps spout burning plumes of gas,
roaring, rushing gusts of fire and ash,
whistling the war tune of falling bombs they still persist,
and line the distant dunes like rusted gods,
But it's alright, the crying never ends,
the crying of men and women,
beasts and children;
for all the world's a sandbox too,
And we patrol the petrol sands,
with rifles and the blood of many,
on our cracked and weathered,
impoverished hands,
And to us; all the world's but a vendor's paradise,
lacking the decency of observed humanity,
ripe for that rape which is harvest,
Trapped behind a wall, a line that we ourselves built,
of ruined stones and weak mortar,
I sing the fight song of my school of thought,
beware the predacious merchant by which we all are bought,
Yet we soldier on,
myself and my friends whom know little else in life,
we face this ugly, cracking wall of false perception and might...
And we drop our dead from above it by night.