TAGGART
(the jesus of the nightclubs)
When the lumpen proletariat begins making
its own cars, I'll worry. Until then, there's
no change in the meter-box and no color to the
paint. They could ride like the Bronze Horseman
along Nevsky Prospect for all I care. Nothing.
-
Butter-churn, cream-charge, milk-bucket peasant.
Onion-dome, brightly-colored, remains of the remains.
I am so off-center now my equilibrium's gone. It
is a day to be dark - remnants of everything.
The darker this December gets, the more hallowed
my soul becomes. Watch the candle-flame flicker.
-
If you swing to the stars or pray to your saints,
either of those acts will draw you down. Medieval
ways have no place in today's gentle genuflection.
Lights. Camera. Action. Hanukkah begins at your
sundown, on a day with no sun. Christ died for our
sins. I think he died for fun.
No comments:
Post a Comment