The icons have fallen.
Watching them burn
Feeling their insanity
The neon turns
The lies are sullen
They have sold their souls
The media for the masses
They wear the crowns
They hang upon the crosses
They beg and plead
The prayers are insane
Inscribed upon a liar's brow
The icons have fallen
The stadium is in silence
Feeling the hum of the fluorescence
The cracked and ruined ground
Watching the falling bodies
The night is interrupted
The gods are gone
The media & the world of wars
The icons have fallen
Empty eyes of the empirical sum
Empty heads of the ruling elite
Change the channel on
the TVs alternative news feed
Slip into the the next digital stream
Stream the unknown data
Into the world wide oblivion
Hear the open circuits buzz
As machinery Hummms
We bow our heads to empty icons
Emojis, iPhones and Windows to some
Empty Icons sit on vacant shelves
A hollow man, a false deity
Built of things best left unseen, unsung
Things in-between the seams of reality
We see these vacant eyes wondering the corridors
Of a steel Labyrinth in a Western Hemisphere
Alone in an mad American
empire of intellectual apes
Dream the dream of empire and empty icons
Empty eyes of the empirical sum
Sum of all parts divided apart
Empty heads of the ruling elite
Slip in the the next digital stream
Stream the unknown data
to the world wide oblivion dark!
You'll put up a statue
and say I'm a poet
When all of you worship
what I'll never know it
And go on to rhyming
what's left in the moment
When statues are showing
the glow of the loment
And I'll be impressed
when the honor is mine
And the statues are tumbling
for the last of the rhyme
Icons disintegrate and views
Long looked upon, now
draw their blinds tight
Against warm air's tattered breath
Whose crumbling words and sighs are stuffed between folded pages
Where shots ring out and
At the corner rounded
misadventures end
emblems
regalia
orchestrated
depictions-
postulate&elaborate
the mysterious,
courtesy of
the profound
Platinum Icons
Their tale to tell is much the same
with looks that helped their claim to fame
Blonde and curvy, they got the jobs
In films and shows they flaunted their gobs
Deep, husky voices from too many fags
Scantily clothed in all the top mags
Make-up and peroxide over abundant
They could never ever be redundant
Marriage was multiple, two a penny
Own homes in Cannes, not Abergavenny
No doubt they had their special talents
In ads and the like for painted talons
B B, M M, and Zsa Zsa Gabor
Iconic beauties that most men adore
And models for women to emulate
enhancing their chance of getting a date
B B now old, the others since gone
Etched lines in face and gray, not blonde
Her love of animals has earned her repute
Her racist views we might well dispute
These women famed for enviable looks
Are immortalized in stacks of books
Although their films are somewhat dated
They’re still viewed and still well rated.
The I icons
Containing full of viruses
Delete it
From the head tops!
in the valley of stone icons and swing sets
concrete angels with brightly enameled orange
ribcages crash violently into one another.
They leave cracked cement with crawling
octopus monikers throughout the dirt lines.
stretching always stretching out further.
difficult, strange dandelions with austere stern continence's
remain in between a backyard swing set and a stone madonna
draped in gaudy necklaces.
and in the year of out lord I sought I foot print in the sand...
Very common in human history
In name of faith- same
Some
-Monopolize hearts and minds of crowd -
Hijack the role of religion as the code of god
To gain the power and cast
The death and misery
Upon divided man
Icons of dark smoky
And insane
In theirs- faith
Bloody ritual thirsty
Fangs- their
Sectarian holds us in diffuse hate
How firmly they stand,
the spires of history
that no one can destroy.
What a curious melange
of hate and love
and yesterday's antipathy.
Indifferent they are,
leaving us their basic legacy--
shining, mocking; it is their heritage,
and the winds of change have no effect
upon a single word.
Within their shadow is enshrined,
the totality of every lie
and every truth we ever knew.
Tread softly in their midst--
It is rarified companionship they offer.
Dare we even to essay to smooth the path
historic footsteps made,
or cleared the way for ours?
There is no answer from the silent skies.
It is the empty flagon of serenity,
the hopeless void that stretches out forever,
calling forth the meditator to his bench,
and time to its eternal rest.
~
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