A WASTE OF TIME

I do not drink
but I am living under this mountain
that might crush the life out of me
any time, any day
so, I drink anyway.

Lucifer, Brightest of Bright Angels, stuttered out
"'Non Serviam! I will not serve!'”
and that is enough, and more than enough, for me
to condemn all the big words spluttered by politicians.

I will not serve that in which I no longer believe
whether it call itself my race, my nationality or my religion
too much grandiosity dims the soul
makes us (c)old.

I hear the wise ones pleading, pleading when on fire,
just so much screaming, as the flames get higher:
hebane, belladonna, mandrake, datura
all of these, like mescaline, can see right through yer.

A broom, a pitchfork, a basket, or a snake
the old religion of love
for love’s old sake
the beautiful Cathars'
heard the rumble far below
looked at the surface, saw nothing only snow.

Hares' prints lead us the way to folly
red berries, like blood, on the christmas holly:

I shall go into a hare,
with sorrow and sych and meickle, meckle care;
and I shall go in the Devil’s name,
aye and while I go, I will come home again.

Sometimes phantasma
Take my wits away
Sometimes for a minute
Often for a day
Glad to be rid of them
Pfff… they are gone.
My wits, for a minute,
My wits, for a song.