Because it is the archangel hypnotizng
you into losing yourself in that thin treadmill
at the archane center of advanced transurfing
& remember what that demagogue Rex Hemphill
said. This is why it's best to imagine one's skull
as a chamber of fetal hair waiting to sprout
into a fetching pompadour & it is cool
that you readily chased out that tenacious tout;
besides, you still didn't have the gumption to reveal
where did those tomatoes go. did they just now squeal
like an army of rats enjoy an exorcism?
'Wanton warriors witness wondrous witticism'
muttered & uttered the judge & that made you hate
your loathsome self's guts with abandon & fury.
That's why you can't trust a cod who is illiterate;
specially if those bald tomatoes ran away.
Even a Neptunian sarcophagus will know
now. Dear scallawag, where did the tomatoes go?
My sarcophagus is made of gold,
my soul is filled with coal.
Breathing was impossible,
trying to catch my last breath.
When there was no air to have.
My sarcophagus will just rust away,
as my body decays.
And memories fade,
You are all outsiders looking in.
The endless thoughtlessness, heartless, tormentors you are.
wishing for me to relinquish my life,
My sarcophagus is made of gold.
My soul is filled with coal.
The yearning of truth will set me free.
I long for these ancients to speak to me
but we have rescued them from the world of the dangerously alive
and plummeted them into a vast pyramidal tomb sealed with wax.
It is a tomb of glass, where the preserved fustiness of eras past
can slowly shed any traces of the epithelial cells that crafted them.
I see the painted sarcophagus, but not the Pharaoh
only the ghost of the one who painted its symbols and hieroglyphs.
A few spatters of red paint encrusted on her face, the smell of oils,
a reward of coins, a night of victorious cries of pleasure,
and in the morning, a mere woman checking the alabaster jars so
her unused paint would not dry to powder like the Pharoah’s blood.
Smileless faces,
Hateful words
Painful actions,
In tumultuous worlds.
Do unto others,
Before they do unto you,
Is this now the golden rule?
It’s not the one I knew.
I try to soar above,
Above all the distrust,
But, I’m still left wondering.
If we can ever liberate ourselves
From our emotional sarcophagus.
As I gaze at the priceless sarcophagus of a boy king,
my mind takes me back in time; thousands of years ago,
when pyramids were powerful monuments,
and Isis covered the entire of Egypt with her powerful, yet gentle wings.
A time when the Nile was as clear as a crystal,
and gold as abundant as ants in an anthill,
is a time worth creating a time machine to travel to,
and disappear in the enchanting grandeur in the sands.
Knock knock whose there?
Me, the blind man was the response.
And where from? asked the other
From the catacombs that cover years of deaths and years of solitude in caskets of not so forgotten years.
Where then and why are you blind? asked the dim voice from within the sarcophagus that laid asleep within its dark encased catacomb.
Well. it laughed.
That’s because I asked too much and was forced not to see and not to judge with my eyes.
But then, I smell.
I perceive what was upon those thirty nights and thirty days
even when the sun has lapsed
‘cause then when I feel the sun go down
all is quiet-
within my blindness.
The moon uplifts
For me to judge and proclaim
What is to then be seen
within my nose that smells.
Ahh… the other sighed.
Your casket you build with love and care
With your faith, His grace and latch of gold.
You build it with no remorse to bear.
Your casket you build with love and care
Past heaven's portal no box you’ll wear
No fear of darkness or ground so cold.
Your casket you build with love and care
With your faith, His grace and latch of gold.
My roots with rodents rage with space and time distant from life
Ask not my name my limestone bed gives clarity to friends and foe
Farewell to all the memories of kissing oxygen
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