The Sacred Tragedy
written by: Dre Carlan
@BXS_RYL_PT
Too many reasons to respect you,
all given to me in seasons passed.
So sadistic but the flow’s hex-proof.
Handcuffs I have, but the feelings; had.
How they’ve evaporated through air
we’ll never know. Though we need it; bad.
As your royalty take their new chairs.
The Boonies are who’re stuck with me
as five-thousand miles away, you stare
a blank expression but luckily
I came with a cure for it though here’s
the thick; a plot that can’t ever be.
No pissed out-sweat and no angered-fear,
fantasies still expound on the nights
we’d walk by water there— maybe here.
Either way it’s clearer than daylight
that fate works perfectly in its ways.
A puppy-love worth enough; re-write
phrases that’ll stay stuck on re-play
like endless loops. Fruity attitudes
that come from the I’s who can’t sea-straight.
Ever since she said “Not feeling well…”
I let my heart case over in ice—
Burn in Heaven or come chill in hell
N’er do sell, all these lines I recite
Just for that Queen B—, always; Bullet.
Like her bark but in love with the bite.
Shit—I’ll bring the trigger and pull it
myself and make it a Boys Night Out
commandments that had to get full-writ.
Jumped in the ‘Stang after we fight, how
did it even get to this?— As Mas
puts me in my place then and right now.
Just as Goddess of Darkness has locks,
chains and wraps tightly around my neck—
no need to check; she’s who in-fact knocks.
’Trice is Queen, but Maya’s also wet
I’ve always put my women on ’till
3:18 said to tell ‘em, “send checks.”
If Parks and Rec can’t do it, Ron will
A pimp with a mustache that likes ham
no stand up spam, comically chalk-filled.
Higher than the flyers of kites, damn.
Re-grounded by Angels or all those
For Greater Communes— always; Bike Fam.
Those who pronounce my name have died twice
not ‘cause of it, but by their blessed cups
normal gents and madams with nine lives
The first step’s too simple to mess up
touch your Imperial fingertips
to your heart in-between its rests, bumps
in the far out distance; swinger ships
blasting their canons, smoke forming P
as purgatory-guides— wringers win
absorbing onyx fluidity
at the base of your nose is an O
for her orgasmic musical feet
Touch exterior of left shoulder
and please gently repeat after me:
“There can always be something colder,
something worse out there in life to be.”
only afterwards you’ll see emerge
carved with blades into the wife’s door; Ë
Touch your right shoulder; bloodied knees hurt
from creating the cross of a T
earning my name like honey-bees work
out amongst the Church with fairy-trees;
—you’ll see my shadow slowly slinking
across the pond where you’ll marry me.
There you’ll see my shadow,
while slowly marrying me.
My Mom worked and worked while she alone,
knew about the signature Strat I craved
still bought it in bluish-green sea-foam
messes I’d made, she’d clean up in Spades
still found the time to relay “J’taime”
loved me just the same, despite my mistakes
kept our home warm in Winters, no lemn
I’d spent my adolescent years just
watching cartoons; some Stimpy, all Ren
All anger, all the time that she’d trust
wasn’t about what I’d say it was
on Birthdays she’d kissed and wished me luck
a love unconditional because
that’s what our Mother Nature expects
but when does she herself say enough?
When her own son— flesh and blood— rejects
all her teachings and wisdom mean-while
the worst hasn’t even hit me yet.
I’m crazy but you can’t speak of denial
when you hear the truth spoken like so
as the fire I’ll keep when senile
with old age, no matter how; night’s sown
itself into daily existence
until the plant-child is first regrown.
- The Sacred Tragedy - November 11, 2016
