4.7.11 after 8pm

4.7.11

After scribbling at work all day I realise that I’ve gone off track, into the religious subject instead of the theme of ‘fame’. So will remedy that soon and get back in line. The deadline has been extended to Wed night so I feel better about that too.

Here’s where I got to:

Religion, that flash of fiction, suspends

belief in moveable feasts – inhale

your drug of choice. Work hard, spend

a lifetime eating fairytales

wearing thin excuses when they failed

to explain the pain or intervene

as horror consumed the scale.

God sits at the table of Myth, serene

 

fixed like dye in fabric, a trend

that imprinted itself, prevailed

persecution only to offend

by making its own war. Full sail

ahead, don’t spare the flail.

Shake out the cloth and come clean

show your gold plate, art, unveil.

God sits at the table of Myth, serene.

 

The very air supports stipend

from gutter to towering jail.

Faith and fame are bound, bend

with the weight of fear, impaled

roasted on Hell’s flames, pale

worshipping people

 

Envoy(scribblings)

 

soak six ounces of legend in ale

add dates, star anise and genes

wrap in a fable and bake. All hail

God at the table of Myth, serene.

 

Some of the scribblings were about a recipe:

 

Cast 2 litres of spell-water

Marinate half pound of dates

1 star anise

Wrap in a fable and bake for 2 millennia, let it stand for 3

Cut the pie into eight and trail with golden syrup.

 

So now I need to get back to FAME. So, I’m just going to jump and see what comes out:

 

Everything has a time, a limit, an ending…but Fame can turn into a spin and rush right out of the frame of reference and explode into being bigger than imagined. Fame can last as long as people are attracted to the concept the person.

Fame builds a base like foundations hold up a house – they are bigger, wider, deeper than the house. The fame of

What draft is this? Maybe 4th call it anyway. I’m going to write all I want to say and mix up the order then I’ll look for the rhymes; I think that’s how I wrote the last one, twenty years ago.

 

God sits at the table of Myth, serene

fixed like dye in fabric, a trend that imprinted itself

prevailed persecution only to offend

by making its own war.

Full sail ahead, don’t spare the flail.

Fame rises like bread, primed, timed.

Jesus is a peat fire underground

Elvis has left the building yet there he is.

 

Shake out the cloth and come clean

show your gold plate, art, unveil

religion, that flash of fiction. I recognise you

how you suspend

belief in moveable feasts, offer up the

drug.

Worshipping people work hard, spend a lifetime

eating fairytales, wearing thin excuses

to explain the pain or non-intervention

as horror consumes the world.

 

Fame is bigger than its boots.

It can grow wild, deep roots like nettles

that have to be dug and burnt out.

Faith and fame are bound, bent

with the weight of fear, impaled

roasted on Hell’s flames.

Fans follow, pursue, stalk or just chalk

a small phase up to a section

of their lives and move right along.

 

Famous for dying – Jesus, Lennon, Elvis

they all left the building. Fame fanned the flames

and turned them into suns

not sons of man.

The End

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