The Road Without Any Tarmac
Humming of unattainable immortality
Laughs through our ears. It is
The horned silly singing plastic box, on an old wooden stand,
Lurking in our large front room.
Hard are legs of charity,
Buckled, then walked I’m used for his front, to be shown-
Whilst he brings children their doom.
Savagely degrading and then murdering his hunt,
Which are those who play alone
On
The road without any Tarmac.
By the collar I was tied
My jaws tightly wired
Shut.
And then later at the house,
I’m given a large helping
Of the latest prepubescent flash, I understand
I must then help clean the mess.
And then without once retching
I finish up all he brought from the road in his sack.
Fuck.
Later I lay down upon
The rug in the front room, doing my usual habit
Of listening to the silly large box’s singing
Whilst chewing on a new bone
Then, between the hums, I saw
The long dirtied road’s end and
The Opening of Hades,
Wider, deeper than any whore,
Filled with faces from the papers I always
Carried to him in my jaw.
It smells like the tasty road treats left by other slaves
Unlike me, all the faces detest the smell of shit
Wagging, I want to harrow.
Osama Bin Laden appears, gives a smile then waves.
Listen, hear Abraham groan
He has been nailed to the farthest darkest reach of wall
It is his eternal tomb,
For stealing from his fore-fathers of the sun-lit land.
Betraying our light in the darkness, eyes burning
He gazes at the faces, and they gaze back. Strangely
Everyone else were really
Large and little dirtied dogs
Like
Me.
Me.
