Praises be Sol et Luna!
Remember the almost there,
not yet angst message Frankenstein
in the hippie happy record
seemed almost from the moon
and said Good News near!
"This is Dawning of the Age of Aquarius?"
High noon my friends.
The ONLY two CELEbreties
making ago of it out There,
and we dismiss their best work yet
in something called 'a Day."
For the sake of Christ
we know every show by heart,
Every performance is so perfect
such sacred, ancient Art.
So good together
and oh, so too apart,
but never casted clumsily or
in interest of a check.
These dancers across the skies of time
giants on the screen are wallpaper scene
when no soul can peer away
from their wretched screens.
The only poles Realty
are those the ones
unoccupied with any flags.
The audacity these foreigners to emptiness and dust and shadow,
saluting stripes and planting stars
way up there upon
the surface of the moon.
Reflection in a visor?
Arizona desert storm?
Do not let the sirens pull you in!
For the truth is up there
as plain as day below blue-balled.
Only mankind flips this way,
uses ladders to climb down later
after blowing up a man-tipped
military missile pointed at the sky.
Tries so hard to run away
looking out so far from
where he really needs to go,
seeking signs of Life
hoping Intelligent does not mean hungry
but "hello there."
Blame the astro-nots.
no matter what you say about
putting up a banner in the wind
when all the air that's moving
is strapped to their backs backs
sky deep and endless blacks.
Oh Luna! Sea!
Dear Sol! Ventia!
and the just two things it shines upon
the only Act in honkeyTown
a cosmic cash cow, and we go blind
as if we were to look right at it,
or so they tell us, anyway.
Such ignorant fools we are...
ignoring the Mythic beyond
stupid satellites and Red Baron government contract retiree
stripin skies all up above.
Mice pelletpoop with black boxes
made of of chips and glass
in hand or half a wall at home.
It ain't on folks! Like in the Sunday ads, football or mountains stripped in later on.
Look at you! You're pokin and swipin dark glass with Nothing really there...
and that's the ONLY problem.
the wool to pull
over Providence's ever-nagging Eye.
Pokety poke poke swoosh
finger dances vodoo tapdance on mirror whose drug is lined up even now.
Even when I talk to it
is this endless glass we face.
Why aren't you too
ROLLING AROUND in the grassy sun
LIKE THE DOG YOU REALLY ARE?
That ain't no scratching itchy Fido,
that there's reporting in to
BIG BIG MOM. Man's friend oh ya,
but Momma's oldest pantry teeth.
F'n A! Press play! I guarantee
to smack you dumbfoundedly
music, imagery, married in technology
a whitebord smear-off,
old drawn out drymarked destiny erased
Planning and presenting,
a storming of different brains
is Nothing newly learned
(and there it is again,
but that's a darker matter
and for another time)
as you standing silently
stunned before the Mystery
epic Art frames upon you instead.
Who is it really just hanging around
all roped off and Docent Do-right
in a dusty old Museum?
The deafening conference line join
when collectively consciousness
presses pound the many
and on the phone but One.
Art is Ark
here comes the Flood
we should be pairing up
and all we're doing is tearing down.
But, the boat is very very sound
Pretty good for one's so square.
Song is signal...
Literal in truth, sends notes to you
unfurled upon the air
Message? Is it Word?
Is it pictures I must watch in time?
Myth reborn's a Robin Hood
a lyric lynching of Pied Piper
payed twice as much
to run us out of town.
Kubrick pissed off King.
But man can that guy film!
So, here's now,
the very scary thing:
Which black box we talkin here?
Ones not in craters crashed on earth
the planes we'll never know,
Or, ones big and faceless,
in charge of men, worklight framed
the men in pit all diggin, diggin... unearthing secrets
just by digging on the moon!