The Sophist

2014-03-12 12:00 am

Seek introspection elsewhere.
I'm here to burn my hands on incense smoke,
Telling God stories of my trysts,
Of all the times he missed.
To a world I doubt is there
I'm yelling my plans to an absent bloke,
telling God stories of my dick,
Of all the dames I dream it chokes.
Vocals crack on air,
The priest is watching alone.
I stare the beast in his eyes,
and keep yelling despite.
I draw a circle, a square,
Triangle, circle, and begin to invoke,
Two homunculi inside,
The smallest circle defined.
Behold, contrast and compare,
Presenting the Philosophers Stoned,
Their knowledge is blinded,
And wisdom unwound.
Priest still watching me stare,
I rub ash on my forehead and go,
To the front of the alter,
No foot dare to falter,
I scream and still nobody's there.

<img src="https://www.aspoet.com/src/img/avatars/philosopherstone.gif" height=300 width=300></img>

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-12 12:00 am

Bluesman.

He was jist sat there.
Strummin' away.
Softly.

Striking vacant chords.
Filled full
Of notes.
In various hues
Of the Blues.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-12 12:00 am

NOT ALL ANGELS NECESSARILY 
WEAR THEIR WINGS AT ALL TIMES

Silly things.

What does your lipstick taste like?
How does it feel to kiss those luscious lips?

What would it mean to hold you in my arms,
And have yours in mine?

How will it feel to have our bodies entwined?

You have released pent-up passion,
That I had almost forgotten.

You have placed me on a pedestal so high,
The fall seems so far down.

I hope that my angel wings still work,
As I haven't had to use them
For such a long time.