Monday, July 14, 2008

Jub Jub Bird Blues

March with me march.
March and sing march, march.
April may rain.
But march march march.

God of war, feeds.
Feeds on.
Feeds on us. For we fed him.
And feed to him.

March and sing.
Sing a new song,
that song of sacrifice,
blunt knives to children.
Yes oh yes you know,
as Agamemon knew.
Just as he once knew.

And so I know, so I know
as Iphegenia knew.
Lying legs spread tangled,
sex exposed,
breasts exposed,
of a crown yet to be deposed.
Feed my sex to your war.

In the tree sings the jub jub bird.
Sings he. In and out of focus,
over and off key,
but keeping time with perfect imprecision.

Dances the skeletons three,
between that yonder tree,
hanging swinging is a young man,
wounded in the psyche,
and somatic even as he lives,
movements on automatic.

The jub jub bird warbles,
throaty tune,
it never ends, but every measure comes to soon.

So you resolve.
So so so you resolve.
That we die for you luxur and lucre.
Sound sound sound sound.
All sound men all you gave us to,
to be raped every more by darker hands,
who own in reality, our homes and lands.

Weege weege weege.

Burbles the nachtagall,
such gall,
flesh stacked walls.

Turn torque twist,
clattering bones at the wrist,
skulls in top hats and tails that grin,
the truth of that which lies with in,
mediveal seventh sign,
the last move of the chess game rhymes.

Of the living soon to be dead,
that will work for you,
after you have embraced your death,
bought with ours.

Boogie on little soldiers,
dance with the skeletons,
and push rant scream vote work,
for the next war for to die for.

Swings the club of the retired resident,
and watches the bone white fly into a distance,
and land right on the green.

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