Author: Max Meunier

take me
to the tomb
i know

the hour
has succumbed me

pray not
let us wait
to see

lest mortal siege
return
the soul

alas
to realize
their loss

the eye of minds
sold off
for sundries

in the erstwhile slumber

underneath

a thimble
pricked
by prose

how can one hope
to be any less human

when home is the place
where we live

here in the hearth
of an earth
bound for ruin

unknown
and alone

unabridged

the scope of our sentence
belies even sentience

in spite of our bellowing breast

when all things lie hinged
on a starburst’s behest

what tenuous faith
lingers yet

how fragile has’t thou yet become
to dust
doth dew surrender

so poignant
at my finger’s tip

find we
this toll of time’s enrapt

the end of days
wast nigh to wend

whence winter aged
again, anew

dissolved
into some drifter’s daydream

spent with none
but thee

here
still i

forever falling

far away
from erstwhile truths

gentle
in thy weakest waking

eyes awash with druse

endless angles
intercepting rays

what ways
wisdom did seldom know

these woes have since awoken
to the wisted water’s
faulted tide

where hides the filament
of fools

for this
am i

to brandish bonds

submitted
by thy love’s abide

y u gotta be so spiteful
what makes u so fucking special
where did u get the impression that ur pain precedes all others

will u ever comprehend this
reciprocity so crucial

how can u not show compassion
then proclaim ur presence precious

disregarding the existence
of extrinsic experience

u display as solipsistic

sentiments supposed as disparate

who r u 2 demand redress
what makes u feel so entitled

pray that i should perchance take pause
proving but paradoxical
in this specious supplication

lo, perhaps ’tis my perception
as per this pathetic prosy

i recall, colloquial affect
most acutely loquacious

drastic is this dichotomy

gen-x 2 anachronistic

. . . what was my point 2 begin with?

ah, yes, 2 squander the moment

(listens) . . .

“y u masochistic?”

and this, quittance of comeuppance

Jesus thinks he’s jazzy
jettin’ ’round in his jalopy

with a heapin’ splash of High-Karate
Pageboy locks and sock-like bulge

kafkaesque by all accounts

wrecks resurrected
from the junkyard

rolls in dirt & grease

then acts indignant
when we call him out

and lately

he’s been sporting those archaic perforated jerseys
cut to frame his rippling midfriff

think i’m joking?
scope his new jean jacket

lo, i jest ye not
that shit’s bejeweled

it’s best that we let him down gently
judge him not
though he has sinned

for what is Jesus to us
but a reference point
prone to revisions

made to grade our tragic states
of ethical ineptitude

if we were to face the fundamental facts
based on our actions

Jesus would be turning fast
within his human grave

henceforth, i do decree
that we observe his truths
sans private faction

banish institutions he himself would deem so dubious

if Jesus should become unhinged

we, as his peers
shall be his jury

by vigilante justice rule

it is our job
to save his soul

pray God, forgo those reparations

looming nigh o’er our hung heads

for if we are to shed our earnings
into wayward wicker baskets

i propound, that only Jesus merits his own private jet

 

patience, wait
was time unspent

to spiral into absence

i hold you

in the autumn’s omen

time is never meant
as truth

hapless
to betray the present

evident when hours bleed
faceless

left
with arms bereft

and pleas

impermanent

as fires comply

sweet semblance

spindle trees
encircle

sign
when sound
am i

all regards
in silence
sent

stretch yond
violet void

severance
of a heart’s undoing

sighs of undulation
pend

endless
was the suffered hour

when hearken
came wren’s sway

i tried to explain

but my brain
took a powder

a clowder of kittens commenced

my tongue they did stay

not a word could escape

and i was thus denied
recompense

for the dolor accrued
solely by the accord
of a vapid world
duly intent

to inflict its grave wrath
on this perilous path

with a virulent vigor
no less

a curse, by all means
self-averse
it would seem

a somatic wrest rightly ensued

knowing not what to do
i bid what i had done

as the sun gaily did
run me through

there, i said
in dismay

at the closing of day

neath a langorous lull
of lament

whence yore languid
i laid

in a pool of malaise

ever moored
to a fate somnolous

you swore your lies
upon his life

and now he lay here

dying.

how it is

did fear comply

belies god’s comprehending.

blessed hands
since turned bereft

divine
no burning bushes.

left with naught
but baleful semblance

will she not remember

a picture is worth a thousand words

unless, of course
it beeth a diq piq

such abominations
force a deficit
unquantified

besieging eyes
unwitting wares
and over-polished family ~jewels~

as jaded
as the hand
wonted to wield its own device

whence yore
barbaric, brazen brutes
did clothe britches befitting

hence, politesse did wrest duress
begat by unbound bulge

this day, i say!
what sights unsound

accost fair maidens
evermore

resolve, one must

if we are civil

dare ye not refrain

arise forthwith

brandish thy blade

forgo thy pomp

and LOP IT.

(mayhaps then, its wrath wilt stop)