The calls from a lunatic God


The calls from a lunatic God Scream from the poets page This - his mackerel brain- In blistering blasts Resonates out a switched refrain But leaves - in residue- The flip flap from the leaf - a hiss- That's newly green In this evolving spring.

And amid this sacred forest Baccus bellows; He bids for us to slowly suckle From his plump wealthy Ready breast, So let us devour without discretion Upon this his beautiful creation; For in this sharp shape twisting wind, We are but cogs in shaft's That rise upon shifts that sing So we hope to remove these sharp toothed rats That writhe in our heads. (c) adh 2017


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Well, this is it.

I'm tired, mostly tired, generally tired, and just plain tired. To start with I am tired of life. tired of living actually. Tired of the drum boredom of it all. Tired of the net, of face book telling

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I              2017© Andrew David Hunt Wix