I’m a poem for my Father I am a tear for my Mother This I SPEAKS- We were in our white cowls chanting ancient psalms of hope by a tiny sliver of light as the morning rang a holy bell and later standing on the frosted grass looking up I saw a symphony of birds going somewhere And I thought of all the soldiers slowly dying waiting to enter through Blake’s gate and the sheriff who found his star while walking to his noon while discussions on drowning are better kept away and the puffed up lonely prophet is standing all alone buying tickets to his show and those mean Sunday mouths sing tight their yellow glow as the politics of bullshit still Speaks our tiny Howl So I felt it time to tell God I  needed him or if not him Buddha would do or maybe even a splash of Nietzsche For I’m the man cutting the heads off parking metres.

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