by Kim Babcock

Created on: February 10, 2009

Nary the Heather nor Daphne nor Buddleia
Cast enough fragrance to fill up the sky
So, inhale the sweet aire to rifle the cries
While ascending on wafers of edelweiss.

The Ginger is piquant, the Anise is lust,
One nestles in ribbons of bona fide bust.
Hail sultry evenings when sumac's a cure
To those orgy~ific days of endless shroom blurs.

Let apparitions dance in the laurels of your bed

Crowning the gales with the blithe intrepid.
Cradle thy head in wearied earth made of hash
And shriek at ringed cheese, behind clouds of charged flash.

Afar in the distance, speaks the prancing of hooves
To sway the lithe canopy of Saffron-leaved roofs.
Eyes dim to glimpse towards the phantasmal Nightmare
Which haunts blissful revel with invasive despair.

A dark figure astride a mighty Black Stallion
Points to thy core with warty old talon
He rasps as he calls a forsaken moniker,
"Hell hath an opening, thou unholy Pontiff R!"

Long years had passed by since a religious young fool
Took a dubious, slow voyage to Seminary School.
Excelling in gospel rhetoric and memorized verse
He scaled Catholic ladders to reap golden purses.

The hills near the shire are all laden with herbs
Father Thyme sullies his bones, so he settles his nerves
By dabbling in sorcery and unnatural apothecary.
Where remedies are plentiful and oft times delusionary .

But addictions will weave a galvanized thread
That freezes crazed annals inside a blocked head.
Thus is the sad tale of a man once draped in cloth
Who turned from the clergy and entered drugged sloth.

"Dark Rider, art thou restless, to collect my old bones?
Slide down thy long fingers and help this old crone!"
Now he straddles side-saddle, with a notorious foe
As they float down the spiral, Amchur Inferno.

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