did not come

with advertisement,

or

a pr department to smooth things over.

did not eat the cake,

then complain it wasn’t that good.

hands still sticky with cream,

face covered in a mess – someone bring a towel! with

maidens, serfs bowing obsequiously

fear locked inside, the master likes his

toys happy. am i not a fair just one? of course

you are – they answered with gusto!

fat slob wriggles towards a palace of many mirrors,

each on showing him in the best possible light,

farts, dang that felt good.

pious monks wearing goudy robes, lifting incense to

the air – hear, hear they chanted to the wind,

take these offerings and give a miracle!

miracle workers performed,

a golden calf gets beheaded – see, see

and humbly knelt before starry eyed audience,

the supernatural occurred,

must be a sign from heaven, the crowd

whispered. who else can perform such acts?

plastic faces, mechanical hands,

hearts following the scent – of wonders,

another thrill, another golden calf

even better. like magic, like what money cannot buy,

a touch from heaven.

more is better, is it not?

golden calves thrashing within locked,

hearts stone like: plastic smiles, genuine nods,

how’s your day? only goes so far,

before anything less than weather becomes

too much – not atlas. sorry no can do.

weathered faces, smiling still,

in lust heaven on earth: the wind takes up

fat calves released from dens unlocked,

spring throughout

green merry fields, with flowers cheering

on – go spread my seed.

fairy dust covers, fairy dust covers

the mind, a warm blanket comforting: feels so real,

a cozy fire in a winter storm.

aye, aye,

the crew replied to their captain –

this one is going to hurt,

then plundered innocence, stole the white sheep

right before a shepherd looking away.

this one’s fresh!

innocence turned inside out, if

hesitates, another sheep down,

falters, another,

and solidly locks

hands with the captain,

joined the crew, aye, aye

captain and slew the next.

a weary shepherd

tending sheep not listening,

as wolves prowl, foxes slinker away

with gleaming eyes calculating. soon. soon.

as one panicky sheep darts out,

and the shepherd’s trail is narrow,

thin,

sometimes one can barely

make out

the road. when footprints, dirt, calls

sound – what is it like?

to be where the party is at. you know, those long nights

that never end, the wines they rotate,

drunkard states do not set in, just pure merriment,

a fuzz, a stupor,

an idiotic grin. got another?

the trudging, the dogmatic, the painstaking

effort to keep up with

a north star, a silhouette just yonder,

sitting, waiting patiently: to follow

even when obvious paths are clearly seen

of what looks to be euphoria –

but the jungle is deep,

hearts deeper.

can you see?

north star falling down, a shooting star,

make a wish: wish, wish for a shepherd’s footstep,

steadily growing strong, louder

till the star begins to burn,

and earth’s mirage falters, stands still,

halts.

hanging on for dear life, swept by

a typhoon, hands clutching to a shepherd’s robe.