Written by R.S. Janes

Yes we are all lying in the gutter
Looking up at the stars
But some of us have had too
Much mud puddle to drink.
Let’s shirk off then
Into the night
Our mortal coil that
Traps souls like a bullwhip
In paradise.
(Hint: Here lies the tomb of
The Unknown Sulker,
abbreviate in speech,
tinker of thinking,
bounded only by limitless
boundaries.)

It’s a quantum quirk that meets
itself going in and out
of the revolving door all alone.
So, let’s not bore too deep
Else we find mystic harp strings
Singing below the concrete street;
dirt and asphalt underlie
each we all know that
What does it teach?

Better the Buddhas of
Irreverent flotsam
Than the Jesuits of
Impertinent jetsam,
with all the rye to catch them,
Always on the beach
and yet never wet.

Beneath, the sewers surge on forever
Put your ear to the ground
And sup on the manifold wages
of pleasure squared and
indignity divine
where the stink of decay
is the sign of a growth leap.
________________________________
2008
R. S. Janes.
All Rights Reserved.