Bargain

[And this one is just angry, but you might get it... :) ]


It’s a hard, hard bargain he drives, and his
Friends aren’t always nice. With the puzzle ring
Of a sultan-king, making promises
Undone. To come, and find the ache with a
Sun’s eclipse, and with pale smoke breath stale on
His lips. God, have mercy on my soul and send
This fiend away to stay in his gangrene
Lands tormenting men in caves of sorrow;
Unrelenting shame and hardened pride; with
A song to hide from the silver storm clouds
Brewing. When the shower of religion
—Pagan in its false assumption of a
Debt only You can bleed to pay—leaks its
Putrid death on pure hearts unkempt for a
Want of where to stay. Eyes betrayed haunt for
Shadows, as the red and black roll in; grave
Remainders of a lifeline, lowering
Forces squelch, without knowing the deeper
And the further driven into Hell, it
Bursts and is unforgiven. For we fight,
We scream, never passively—shred a tear
Of hope masochistically. Sudden, turn
Sodden for a force that’s made to win in
Unprevailed precise array. Forms are sick
On maldisplay, and with spleens and gall over
All spattered, showing the disgrace of a
Hard-turned race of cowards, scoundrels. One goal
And intent—never mind their strength and the
Number of forked tongues. Give a little rope
—Undetermined swaying, and the champion
Bigot hangs his own neck there. It’s a hard,
Hard bargain he drives; his friends aren’t always
Nice. Is it worth the flight and the frothy
Pink cocktail delight when the outcome of
Delirium in the deadly fainted
Equilibrium of a ghost with a
Hangover tosses round the ring, facing
Blows from a taskmaster who played on the
Night before a sexy sting in a thing
Of shielded masquerade? Where the heart and
Soul of a seraphim, gave its name to
The ways of sin, and cried out in rasps of
A sulphurous fume. It’s his game, and his
Friends aren’t always nice. It’s a hard, hard drive.
--Angelina Phantom 8:00-8:15 PM; August 10, 1999