Friday, February 15, 2013

GOODBYE ANGEL; I'LL MISS YOU / RESISTING THE INHERITED LIES / THE DOORS

Alan Britt

GOODBYE ANGEL; I’LL MISS YOU

 Angels can be demons,

at which point they’re dangerous.

 They don’t know everything.

Hell, some don’t even know how to count

backwards from 1 to 333.

Angels can only tell us what they know,

& occasionally they seem to know

more than we do,

but that's not what makes them vicious.

 No, some angels are vicious by nature;

others learn it from the culture,

& a few...well...a few make up the rules

as they go, clear-cutting redwoods

for theme parks to entertain the ignorant culture,

since it appears the more an ignorant culture remains

entertained the less likely it is to behead you

or nail you to gold-plated crosses sold

by the bazillions at suburban malls.


 Yes, angels can be a skittish bunch, nervous

as abused pit bulls, or greenyellow parrot feathers

ripped from naked chests, plucked over 36 years

of being crammed into a 4' by 6' gilded cage.

 
Anyway, some angels are drop dead gorgeous;

it's not their fault, beauty turns them into demons,

at which point they're dangerous.

 


RESISTING THE INHERITED LIES

 
Don’t say there’s a council

to tell us how

we must feel,

what we should believe?

 

That’s so Roman.

 

Don’t say

that my government and yours

chooses to pursue a bravado

akin to Alexander the Great’s

or Napoleon’s

in its pursuit

of equality?

 

Don’t say that if I’m a lowly woman

I must begin from birth

to sharpen

my eyelashes for death,

because I believe

there’s more to this sorry

story than golden hot-tubs

in 50-star hotels

with flat plasma screens

broadcasting the most unbelievable political elections

of our country’s history?

 
THE DOORS

 
The doors of perception

ripple

like brass-ringed

bullfrog’s eyes

poking just

above the surface

of ashes

carefully prepared

by

a lowly German matron in her worst hour of

picking tulips

the color of yellow and black

impossibilities

or poppies

raging against a sea

of injustice;

so why

surrender

to the white argument

that we don’t exist

when

we already know

that shimmering red veins

on elm leaves

with black splotches

resembling rancid indecision

have more to do

with personal history

than our gilded 

spray-painted

souls?

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