Zero Tolerance Zion

Everyone doing something
Breathing, eating, dreaming,
Staring upwards through the skylight
Sleepy eyes, floating dreamwards bound
Poet, muse, mystic, haha gibberish
matchboxes with nomadic operational hazards
Lazy times, lazy squirrels like a caterpillar
with broken back
Black and white clockhands
Seven sea sands with sea monsters
and Beethoven with the night of the narcissistic stonehenge
Antagonist, Agnostic…

Golden Monkeys – they stay in the sky

Upper regiment with broken ribcages
Minuites, hours and seconds standing at the door
Reflected in the mirror
Fire leaping up, bellowing like a
hushed up aristocratic scandal
Ministers and councils advice the king
The king of frogs – his voice is hoarse
and cracked from incessant croaking

Golden Monkeys – they chatter in the sky

The door of my cupboard is cracked as well
And in that crack cockroaches reside
The kingdom of the cockroaches – they have a king too
And they have a god named Gregor Samsa
And a holy book called The Metamorphosis
Parallel to the edges of the multi-angular dryness of the crack
Darkness sets up his unabashed throne
Darkness has a wife named eternity
Eternity has a paramour named religion

Golden Monkeys – they eat the stardust

Cobwebs filter the hollow vacant nudity
Numbness of the frostbite grows free
Unrestrained by the monarch’s big toe and the dog-eared lawbooks
that state nil nisi bonum
Windows keep on staring inside
the pale of the moon and the skyworn
sickness of lovelorn Rasputin and the
frittering fickleness of meat and bread
Waves, echoes, boredom, ennui
and Revolution thrashes on the washed feet of
the Apostle – he has lices in his beard
Food for all, shelter for all, hope for a few…

Golden Monkeys – they drink the moonshine

Droplets of wine, poison fire fuming
down the chimneys and tunnels and
fireplaces where greyhounds meditate the
passion of the minstrel of paradigm
and holiness of picric acid gulped down
in hollowed out moments of vacuous
hypnotism and agoraphobic Philomela
Tapping the sidewalks of the democracy of
jesters and troubadours, down the slope,
into the valley of Bob Marley

Golden Monkeys – they tried to bite the sun but their throats got burnt

Canals of the passing monotheists dive dream
down deep Don Quixote windmills windmills
Don Quixote Ringing for a drop of heaven
and a dip in the rivers
with the wombs full of fire
and ashes and wanderlust and Armageddon
thirsty for a piecemeal antique of the thoroughbred
subterranean suffering from Oedipus complex
and Jocasta’s dilemma silence of Sophocles
says a thousand words of the confusion passing
the pallid ardour of the whirlpool, ceasing,
open-fire, castrate the bastards Love of a woman,
mother, wife, daughter, love, struck by
John Henry’s hammer aching shoulders and
mourning dynamos of the impetus behind motion
and existance of duality and public information
counting days like philatellic verses

Golden Monkeys – they fell off the sky

She sang to me a lovely song
She sang to me a lonely song
She was from Venus and she loved me crazy
She gave me a plastic rose

And the Golden Monkeys fell asleep