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The Vagabond

The Vagabond

O suburban daemons, O witches of extravagant monstrosities, I’ll miss our rendezvous to vanquish the ennui of youth, but the lust of these lands is lost to me. Since the bebop of birth, I dwelt long in the sewers of Prudence. surfacing to sneer at society’s eagles perched upon their pompous mores, scowling down at me w/ their reproach, their disgust of me… How grotesque I must’ve seemed, and I loved it. They couldn’t suppress me. They couldn’t wash me of my beloved filth: my spunk was the slizzard funk of degenerates, the Tao of lizards sailing the world w/ our gizzards of vulgarity unfurled. I was never destined to be a productive outlet, only the body discovered in a ditch you nonchalantly skim over in the morning paper; but no more… Like a gnat caught in the hungry web of Karma I feel I’m too late to relish Destiny’s bosom, her supple hope arising like a Louisiana dawn so blissful… so blameless… Embittering’s this beauty spitting in a weary eye’s grasp whilst one is burdened by the blood-thirsty baboons of his past upon his back, always screeching murder in your ear of every lesson you never learned; always drumming on your back with charred wood of every good bridge burned. BUT NO MORE! Set me free. I’ve gorged my fill of the poor hedonist’s delight & puked beyond a replenished appetite. Blessed reprieve! I stand upon the golden terrace of my life yet to come and sense the joie de vivre of the adventurer reignite. My shackles evanesce from the heat, and I leap w/ blind faith, untouchable as an albatross soaring to his own true niche. The timpani of determination’s still thump, thump, thumpin’ somewhere deep as Moria inside of me. The operas of opportunity revive! I alone w/ scaly outreached palms and slit eyes shuttered with shame shall accept my penance. My fair wind o’ faith hath long since blown; instead I’m t’voyage, my compass and spiritual spoilage hand in hand, to lands of pure passion for my skin to shed. I’ll return only once e’ery exhumed skeleton from the mortuary of m’heart is ground to dust, and I’m subsequently immune to the rigor mortis of a repressed spirit. Self-crucified misfit w/ a skull gemmed in garnets carving fleur-de-lis covenants on his dignity; eyes of blood moons eclipsing a myriad of worlds unfathomed; enigmatic as Ziggy & a Rimbaud amour welcoming the warm flesh of harlots, harlequins, heroines & nuns alike – floriferous friction! – words whisky-smooth and risqué, scat-singin’ the rhapsodic psalms of a song wherein both the lion and the lamb belong… I am done. C’est la fin. ‘twas all but a dream, a dream worthy to remember, but now this phoenix is ready to return to ember.


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