Devouring wings, my drip is dramatic,
Flames ignite tongue, buds sting acrobatic.
Capsaicin conga line, thrusts are erratic,
Spicy-raised roof, heat hitting the attic.
A gourmand adventure, once mild aromatic,
Infernos erupting, eyes leaking emphatic.
Scoville scale rising, its rays autocratic,
Mouth fully ablaze, sensations hematic.
"Why eat this?" You ask question Socratic,
For flame-kissed climax, pursuit is dogmatic.
Chasing the burn, with choice democratic,
Hot-fiery yearn, a finale ecstatic.
There were roses on Calvary that day, you know.
Bunches and bunches of roses adorning the skull.
Red roses! For crimson blood seeped profusely that day.
It had to be so for our own sake. Divine blood
that dripped from a thousand and one hematic wounds
as He hang on a brittle tree He Himself had created.
There were sharp, pointed thorns too on the roses.
They adorned His Divine head, piercing the smooth skin,
forcing majestic blood ooze down into His royal eyes,
stinging them abundantly, preventing proper sight.
No wonder the prophet Isaiah said of Him:
"his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any man
and his form marred beyond human likeness....."
Such were the pointed thorns that crowned Him King of Kings.
Yet for those who know, there was perfume there too.
A fabulous fragrance that came down from Heaven
on the wings of the Holy Spirit, a balm of blissful grace,
that we may wash ourselves in it and be justified.
"He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows,"
For He loved us much. And we? Do we return His Love?
The Madman’s Midnight
Tis death again, that flutters in my macrocosmic mind
We may know not when, but it is easy to feloniously find
We wait with flourishing fear for the madman’s midnight
We adjust to a nourishing sphere of a fetal fervent freight
All hope, distant dawns; love may not help us to escape
We are only pawns, incoherent of all recrudescent rape
Shadows fill the room, smoke the abominable abulic air
The hands of doom approaching the midnight sapid snare
~~~
No fixes for the crucifixes all must come to an egregious end
Triploids thru empty voids we all must accumulatively ascend
Our affinity questions divinity before the final hematic hour
There are no signs in the callow confines as we scurry to scour
No more time as we climb the stairways to heavens or hells
We decide where we hide and thus form secret schizoid shells.
Feb.14.2018
The doomsday clock 2 minutes to midnight
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
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