Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Magician’s Cloak: a fabrication in 4 parts: Part 1



Pull back the magician’s cloak and this is all he stole
Behind the fabric of traffic intermingled baggage
In crumble-step languages and meandered obtuse angles
The voice of the voiceless is a megaphone from most lips

Quivering and swaying, swearing and obeying
Sentiments of concrete scriptures tipping off the teamsters
To build this and not pave that, road to here, but that wasn’t in the contract
Literary luminaries deriving the new millennium source code

With what the hive manufactured two-thousand years ago
Look like that, skin not as soft, polyester genealogy
Whip the star-dust off the culture astrologically
Believe in a pole position based on moons and horses risen

Odds at the track on Pascal’s wager with no take backs
This one’s a mudder; she’s a streaker; he’s a thoroughbred, he’s a preacher
Kick up the grass and don’t let the crowd pass
The effort to expunge the shoes the tribe told them to meld to their feet,

Which made it heavier to run, keep up with the talkers
Have the squatters become the followers, iron-cast
Two sets of rules and sure the first shall be last
In a diamond encrusted golden chalice, drink victory

That only I can make and partake, herein after me
Masturbatory allegory of got to have the testicles
To transubstantiate the variables of why I am here and you are there
Don’t look behind the curtain, the wizard is always there

Master magician, the all-seeing eye, penetrating gaze
The difference between you and me is the parting of a tornado, wild-fire, hurricane
Swirling out to sea, hello New Orleans and avoid Corpus Christi
Hollowed out hells and peoples on faith

Crash into Mexico and Mobile rearranged, who invented Mardi Gras
Got to get ‘em back; debauchery, decadence and no marriages like that
Making me babies plump wombs up good, can’t just shoot down my sperm signals
To make men for my wood, nailed up like love soldiers

Showing you how, last shall be first, and over there don’t eat the cow
This one had bacon, nah sucker you’re out,
This one broke the peace of the mountain and demons came misting out
Blow, blow, blow your houses down
For the one true, begot you into a mushroom

Heaven of clouds, jump on this trampoline of expectations
No trampling to get here, there are plenty of fish in this ocean
To catch, just don’t think too much or you might see the nets
You have rushed to find slumber in one of the great tents

Full moon tonight and the parables of goodness are stitched
With other men’s flesh, stretched out to looms of bloodshed
Wars of conquest, gold crusade contests
Of who’s land is my land, Woody from Jerusalem to New York Island

Jolly bankers changing money in the temples, reverends making penance
In the plates with microphones about uteruses and sodomies in the state
Of who started what and the answer to all, staring at the people
Behind him as the horse rushes out the stall

Look at him go racing to the sky, can’t see his face, but My, Oh My!
He’s got a beard; we’re sure and balls of never-used sperm
Pent up in a mystery of genetics and chromosomes of conquest
Who can be the first to see his shit-eating grin is the ultimate contest

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