STILL SCHEMING

Everyone's a critic...

I gave it a week; but the Rhyme Scheme meme was met with thunderous...apathy. Are those fireworks or crickets that I hear? Are you purring or snoring? Whatever.

A few brave souls stumbled forward; only one sticks out right now. Sound Destruction answered the call with confidence and candor. I recommend their site...

Otherwise, their were some half-assed bongo-apes who e-mailed shitty Bush limerics; and many who were so gung-ho have yet to contribute a thing. I'm not offended. I suppose it's all less competition in the long run.

Here are the last of my contributions to the cause. I might take all this down next month. All this yawning makes my site meter sleepy.


CONTAGION

All of Nature is reviled
(All our natures are defiled)
By a smirking pestilence--
A multi-class vehemence,
And a virus nondivine
That destroys braincells and virtue
Like a hard dose of strychnine.

There's been a new die cast,
To keep our systems caste;
To make scapegoats of schisms,
To rain parades--not on them.
It's a circus that's come to town,
Where ringleaders and acrobats
Jump bandwagons in single bounds.

Prerequisite and exquisite
At making me inadequate,
It circulates; it circumvents,
As men descend to heat's content.
Virulence in vogue, but out of sorts:
Both clarion and carrion,
Causing to conform as it contorts.

Hungry as wolves, fast as jackals,
Wild-eyed, with hyena cackles--
A group mind, minding groups and scenes,
A sickness needing a vaccine...
Itself, addictive as a drug.
Infectious, swift as lightning...
A leech that only feeds on slugs.

A social smoke chaffing our lungs,
Infecting the heart, then the tongue.
Every food chain has weak links--
And we are bound more than we think.
Smitten by Swarms to become the Swarm...
Gospel to garbage-loving flies,
In blanket personas, ever warm.


LEMMINGS

An anthem we've begun to sing--
It's tuneless, yet it tops the charts.
It lends a familiar ring--
It missed the mark,
But the echoes play in our hearts...
A shot in the dark
That has killed our moral being.
It's not the bells of freedom that ring.

I can't believe what I am seeing--
A problem of true faith that's soon desolved.
I can't believe they have made it king.
It always resigns
Long before it begins to resolve.
Truth is so unkind...
Thank God they haven't told you a thing.
(Who would subscribe to that magazine?)

A pretty dress missing the seems--
We're less concerned with why we're right,
And more concerned with who'se obscene.
It's not farfetched
To think, if thrown a bone just right,
We would play fetch,
Or jump right off a cliff, singing:
"They did it first...we're just lemmings!'


DEAD LIONS ROAR

Panning for the gold of God
Until the Deluge comes…
And riding high upon
Weathered and defeathered wings
That no good angel would wear…
We stand alone-unkept, unshod,
Gathered only to sing
Praises to a dying sun,
Subtracting uncertain sums
Where only fallen angels care.

Moving forth, not forward
Until our kingdoms come…
Until our kingdoms fold…
We shake the hands that shake our lands
And shake our very faith as we approve…
Forced down, facing upward
By strength of glands and foreign sands--
By what descends of old…
But only running from
All and everything that does not move.

Begotten and bygone by God
As time steals our very wings to fly…
A muse laments our amusements.
Returned to collect an age-old loan,
Something waits to settle a score:
Fleeting echoes of a harlot’s moan,
Of a prophet’s voice long absent…
Of an unknown midnight cry…
Of an ancient dead lion’s roar.


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