Red Book
The way of what is to come are the dreams of a man made mad by some
Things rambling's converge on one point that's spread across time
And through space in the face of a race that never tires the mind
Your business of demons surrounding the fortress, pitching their
forks
Ringing in chorus
As one great big howling moon armored to the teeth
Talking to no one where no words can speak
The truth buried beneath the conscious mask worn by the shadow willing to bask
In vast flasks concentrated with sunlight
But
Graciously bows out
Then gouges its eyes out
To watch itself sleep tight in the dark wake of the night
During firefights between shattered thoughts scattered thoughtlessly with banality
Midway beyond the mayhem of a blood-soaked mentality
Where screaming monsters are routinely ignored by the maniacs of reality
And each of its variations
Softly serenading
All of the bats in the belfry until they fly out and start separating
The shredded pieces and burned edges
Torn from the pages of the red book
Into a collection of jumbled puzzles that jigsaws happy endings
Then strings them up on a dead hook
While coaxing reapers down off the ledges
With crooked pledges of shining driving wedges
And playing golf in a strait jacket, swinging wildly
Aiming directly for the hedges,
Whispering 'four' on an empty course and watching the ball bouncing off the walls
Over the hill under midnight falls
At the end of the book, the sessions, and phone calls
They're not as crazy as anyone alleges
poem by P.R. Prosper
Added by Poetry Lover
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