The DeLorean Conspiracy

And the iron fist lay down upon his chest,
devious suggestions made manifest:
the guilt that it became..
(she will never know his nature nor fame).

Even though she sat upon his rocking horse
and she found his fated, ill-bred course.
It was too late too withdraw
and she never saw
any more.

He left many years ago
upon that rocking, floating boat
into the salty sea he became
the misery.
Eternally shutting down the sound of

one thousand poets needling the crown
as blood flooded all around
it was I
upon this hallowed ground.

Where earth shook so much
and caved in worlds –
but to the common eye,
to the less unfurled,
it seemed just like another flutter by
of the beautiful butterfly.

But to Eliot and the enlightened host
they saw what
mattered most
they saw the prophecy
they saw our unity
in the fabric of the universe
in the rolling wheels of the eternal hearse,
they saw us on calvary
before Tyresius or you or me.

And they cast their seeds into the wasteland.
They caught the lonely falcon before it could land.
They left the sawdust bands
to roll and jive and pass the hand
to the player that new the score
the one song
forevermore.
No starry night,
not any more, and so
they came to cry on God’s door.

The one place that they knew
could never misconstrue
the meaning of the stew,
the potent broth,
the boiling brew

That had been bubbling
since the start of eternity.
She said “God, just let me be free”
and he granted her Nietzsche.

But the feeling died in the sand
between the past and the future land
as we fell into devilry,
she screamed for revelry.

Punctual ghosts approached the host
reprimanding those that boast
for the conscience of killing,
it throws up violently
and blows up
through the ceiling…

It ran rampant through the sordid minds
of twenty-first-Übermensch-mankind.
It tore the world into shreds
and through this feeling she pledged

to continue the fight for truth:
To never let slaves be lost
unto the trenches of the booth
where dead men take photos of the
holocaust.

She swore to swear into him
the final muscles of her final, dotted grin.
She became the final swirling sagas.
She catapulted herself into the furious gyre.

Those never known know furious future
and the past extends from where we could have
begun
to
where we end.
Nothing matters, nothing truly becomes.
But she, for some odd reason,
keeps fighting from within.
Not because of the totality of sin (that could corrupt
corrode, or become a thing
that sells or condemns souls to him).

I know nothing
But I know this:

We should never let ourselves be just
mundane, mechanical swine;
no matter the epitaph,
no matter the time.

The search always continues.
Never let the questions elude.
Good Sir and good madame, the twenty first century is
not the total
Armageddon.

And even though she preaches this
through her ignorant fists,
I’m becoming the priest of my own life
leading myself out of strife.
No more lightning crashing.
No more of her respite.
I’m the God of determination.
I seed the songs of the next generation.
I rely on my soul and nation
of the mind
and of the Raven.