clifden, connemara
my soul, as pure as a bountiful spring,
hidden, eons apart
from desolate water bodies
where even algae fear to tread.
my heart, oozing across the landscape
of your original skin
like an optimistic river.
if it were up to me, what we had,
flicker-fleeting, yet monumental,
like a comet sprinting across the universe's seam,
what we had would metamorphosize, transmogrify,
become as flawless
as the nameless outer fringe far-off galaxy
to which the feeble human race must emigrate
if armageddon's unbearably icy talons
are not to be premature:
at any cost, where is that stereotypical
little green man (or woman)
who must rescue us,
carry us off to hi/ers own
private cosmic xanadu?
earth, you are far too cruel a place for me,
with your heartless fascist machinations
and woeful fundamentalist demonstrations.
earth, you are far too lost a place for me,
with your misguided nationalist proclamations
and pathetic racially motivated accusations.
all: attempting to bury Truth
under the rockslides of vicious lies.
Instead of bothering
to continue asking “why?”
perhaps it would be far more productive
to just shell up, wither, gasp, and die
(a beacon crucified
in an ocean of murk).
