Oh, the drear idea-
"beauty products"
does suck
rich winds
from Charlie's
simple sails.
To wit-
beauty's not produced
but born/bestowed-
this much our Charles
yet quaintly avers
and whatsmore
pious prays is true.
What he feels, he practices,
but does not preach-
to walk unflinching 'cross and through
a world hammered hot with hates,
where dead-hearted men
go unimpeached and
asphyxiated forests cough out
dirty verses for flocks
of bald and songless birds,
high plains pocked and puddled,
wronged with painful, radioactive rain
as unearthed crude congeals
along the bastard beach-
Thus Charlie's charred,
disenchanted conscience
squirms and churns.
He counts himself humbled
possessor of an awkward
and ungainly faith wherein
Love's omnipotency yet teaches
those limber enough to learn-
yet his horrific hesitancy has
oft left him stumbling several
stupid steps behind and betting
blind while twothree sawbucks short.
So, while psuedo-surgeons,
ply their pathetic plastic
and siliconize the valley
more rightly populated by
pendant, peach-fuzz and perfume,
Charles' maddened mind fumes
and sears with nightmarish themes
of the world by man undone,
his song stung and glutted with
garish/ghoulish imageries-
post-apocalyptic ghost-towns
where groups of coyotes,
gutted, fill a roadside ditch
'mid the stink of feral feline piss,
the rabid hiss of scavenger birds
on various carrion enriched
beneath a stunned sky the
gun-metal gray of a groan,
and hard by, the prayer tree
by man-made lightning smote...
these things by rote our
rent-hearted bloke recites,
all rosey visions gone out-wiped
while direct unto his unguarded part,
by spheres celestial, is piped a dirge,
an ancient ache whose primal surge
by dark-winded instruments is blown.
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