One Hundred Years 12/05/05
Sean Farragher

What happens after a hundred year century dam its old spurs shift into some
bad brakes easily in the shuddering passage of incomplete margins we are
dropped and left behind. No one looks forward to understand the boot
of miners clairvoyant and discerning arranged in the optical measurements
that unveil the last tune of nature, the abyss, or worse that terminal
moraine where light from every protruding rock simply is cast off and un
repentant gives up wine and the casual screw for the lone girl who says love
is the perfect pain killer, such an unusual phrase, perhaps. Inside the body,
in heart lock we are invisible in the familiar tunnel. All protruding rock cuts
story line with episodes and network message surveys and customer rated
hot pants mama would you kiss Madonna, I would, rave reviews not posted
and of course unread, unsaid and broken down like another hundred years.

What happens when gold turns black and sand invisible stings cheeks, lips
and blind, we are sacred of the universe unloading guilt like car bomb candy
canes driven out of Babylon and into misery so help me some day I will find
it all alive in the pulse of my crotch with you alive watching the show like an
organ grinder serenade the way pick up the broken skin and solidify in an
ancient mountain without cracks in mantle or volcanoes that bluster about
the rights of man.

Details are most important perspective
for the murder of mankind by its failure
to communicate or to understand remorse.
2105 has its graveyard set among the roses.
It shows the empty riches and partial songs
that empty brooks carry too far from town to waste
land where the breeze is suddenly calm, then old.

No stench but the floral treasures remain
in the absence of man and his silly fiddling
with de Dee the consume of human soup.





XXX