PROPHECY: MAKE MY MILLENNIUM
The weather's getting nasty and so are people on the street.
Marginal characters organizing Internet freaks to wade in
from passion's flood, re-enacting high school histrionics,
amphibious, counterpoised, headlight struck, another
ballistic psyche doomed to pillage, rout and rigor mortis.Cursing chaos, you microphone what others believe,
Bible thumping, yet always fresh out of mystical union.
On the other side, too many of you are trapped in gray,
frozen mid-lake in a personal season.
You've chosen the midnight of bad memories
lying paralyzed in bedrooms while intruders walk
through vaporous walls. You search
for mental escape-routes from the gradual darkness,just when the almost dark becomes total.
How many rockets, commuter God-flights?
How many ladders do you pad up slowly,
trembling at the touch of yourselves,
frightened of the whisper room,
an object on a storybook page gone bad,
a bottle glowing ray gun green.
Cat-like, your sleep pattern
shows a dedication to the nocturnal life
as though nothing happens in the morning
that you can't learn by staying up all night.
Earth is unfinished, continually reworked
like an Albert Ryder painting. It won't dry til the
changing stops and starts to look like your own.As Jean Cocteau has said,
"There is no connection between one dream and another."
Too bad, there is no mystical union...
But the body remembers; once brushed by the
language of wings, a darkened theater, the flicker of poets,you stare out of your memories into the path of dream light.
You hold your stance in the rush of air,
keeping your mountain cool of which all prayer sings.
Renewed, your giving survives.
Despite ill omens of thunder showing us black of moon,
street rap couplets of comets and the birth of monsters,
we are still 'once upon a time', and the curtain is going up.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2010
