Disciple, The

Hieronymus Bosch must have been the alone sane man in the public way cars in the wet city's speeding traffic Oh son of a father who doesn't acknowledge you a pig wallowing in the dirt no temporary guest but brother kinsman

mulling above the origins of his decay

Of course neither would Ezra strike with his stuttering syntax false madman without the madman's bitter gall or the thin drivel of firing-squad victims who don't know for what cause [i]or[/i] reason they should repent and don't talk back to me brother of the lowest cur nor would Ezra strike switch off the water for profitable if you lit up the thirst you've stashed away with equal reason long

Now for the moderate drink you've craved like the night

The dark wine in this alabaster goblet tastes like of great depth words words oh so down-reaching rescued by a mouthful of the swollen wind Aida, Roberto, Jose

haven't written to me-they've left me upon my ownonly Radomiro keeps upon giving me the same advanced in years song that he drinks

that Johann Sebastian Bach holds putting on as much weight as individual of those whorehouse madams knifed to death upon the first hostile dawn I've insulted you enough-rotten shadowyou've learned a great deal of over the years without digging into anyone else's pouchs I'm sleepy now Get on the outside of here!

Copyright World verse Incorporated Sep/Oct 1996

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