Must they tell me who they are from the onset?
Must they tell me so quickly?
And my dreamcatchers!
They have devastated them,
Cruising them in their palms like minute rodents.
But-
Must they have?
Yes.
I suppose.
It is the modern-day Assumption on a macroscale,
And o how I have bled for them,
Over and over again.
I have bled for you.
The fallen, the lost stability to hear in my ears
Is a ruckus, a jumble of fragmented instruments.
I fear the aureate.
Of them, those instruments, the choir only sings
When the gun holds my open mouth
And the trumpet blows during its holy commencement
Speech that says,
O law, the boy is at last in the audience!
We are all his men here,
Let us have a good laugh at him,
And watch the insurmountable loss of life that is sure to follow.
Let us watch another disgorging of his blood,
His sense of confounded blindness,
And his cancerous obedience to us as unlovable bastards,
Hot as a broken tooth-
Only here, and all from this stage.
Yet here I say,
Let them laud it.
It was only my fault and only mine!
I am heavy as a child's rocker,
The wood of it all,
Crying and waiting for Mother.
O the signs,
They were everywhere growing up,
Lining the sidewalks to that orchestra of bastards,
Written with the same font,
The same lettering,
The same words.
Woe, is me;
Must they tell me who they are so quickly?
I had just wanted a happy surprise,
And instead I have these signs,
These ugly signs,
A murderous crowd,
And those symphony players-
Deadly angels of blackened veins
And a knack for the ironic.
One must never allow me to look for the same love again.
They have showed me who they are,
And in my next adventure I will locate
The letterings and words of that orchestra of bastards
On green picket fences in highways,
As though Easter egg hunts are sacred enactments
All year round, and drown in them.
So
If I must die there,
It will be a great one,
Leaving a beautiful corpse from all those discrepancies,
All those failed therapies to give me a quiet life
Unbelonging to me,
Until that orchestra of bastards cannot threaten me anymore.
So open my pockets from the beautiful corpse,
Take the coins;
Throw the little penny I have and wrap it
In a pine-green note of ten for the next life.
It beckons me, my mouth a peppery forest fire,
My eyes pining for a new independency
Away from that orchestra of bastards and bastards.
Yet still, they sing to me-
Still, they sing.
