based on the works of Pinhead, from ‘Driveway’ to ‘Smoking at Sexton’s grave’, with liberties...
Furies assaulting, pulsing, ringing
breaching the ramparts of our exposed sticky blood
we are compelled to send libations to the wet moon’s gift of ill winds
in the pock-faced biting rain
and liquid mountains of the Bitch-Goddess
singing our funeral dirge with slit eyes straining...
so against this we send a simple man with an open heart
and a mauve stone...
The ashen blue skies reflect our smiling faces
as we raise our eyes from the earth
and plug in our blue guitars and gyrate
while spurting warm pulses of vibrating steel
that mingle with the lonely breath of God.
Naked, we writhe in love and despair
tongues growing thick with piquant secrets
as our love songs float over the chasms of the heart
and the broken dreams of a pseudo-culture
of waving socio-paths engaged in satanic sojourns
beyond unseeing eyes in a miasma of human flesh
who hear the siren’s song and row to their doom
among the craggy reefs of life.
War rant rotting entrails of gore greedy with feces well oiled
declared and proclaimed war machines
duel with mindless medieval chanters
as God battles Himself in the sands
with nuke-pricked splattered swords
hacking the heads off flowers in a lockstep march
to misunderstood business suits and babbling tyrants in turbans...
one plugged into subjugated veiled female war receptacles
and the other into brassy braless spinsters with peace signs...
Back home on the river’s quiet, verdant shores
we find dancing to the quiet drums of sprouting seedlings and babies
with blueberry giggles
the silken interludes of mankind’s conscience
which is then laid out on polished stone
and sprinkled throughout the northern lands
trod over by the gentle feet of a teacher, dancer, and a muse
skipping over road-kill and moonbeams
scattered among the rhubarb and dandelions
and through the sex-scented urban driveways of rust-bucket pickups.
Here in the twenty-first century schizoid men waltz
among gold coins buried in the ghosts of fire spirits
that travel in canoes to escape America...
and encounter a garden of hummingbirds at the end of a country lane.
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Very cool, Wayne...amazing write/rewrite, my Friend...Heyah, Rob...he did one for me, too, called 'Voyage into the Titles of Night Hope'...it was awesome!!! 
Well done, Wayne...great morphed picture, too...
3 old applause
