The Black Lion by Brian Francis Heffron
Lied To, and About.
Deceived, Betrayed and Made Unimportant.
That is the way of the people's wants.
The worst has happened.
The other shoe has at long last...dropped.
The tiny dancer is once again
A prickly old "Phoney" (sp) who looks
Like lint between the pages of the First Edition of
The Catcher in the Rye.
Offstage like Shakespeare: VIOLENCE.
I have been broken like a child's first cigarette.
Fumbled...weakly snapped, then licked furiously
To save your first smoke, then surreptitiously abandoned,
And disowned into the generic ash gray of the tray.
But me,
I'm still a Celt,
A full fledged Dead Ender.
Infinitely more dangerous than originally anticipated.
Clearly.
But my unbreakable lance has broken more than once now,
Already.
So I do have to struggle to advance to get my wind up.
But I am wiry to the celtic core and accept all comers.
I say this painfully for all here to hear.
I say I am no longer the Hero Of
This sticky fingered "caring" crap that
You invented long ago to mask your disdain.
Snarling ripely with a deep seated incorrectness.
The first body you burned you now wish were your own.
But, according to intelligent design,
And God's will. You're just as the mural at St. James painted you:
There you were on the wall: a "confounded confusion" in our community. Dangerous and unearthly.
But It was only me, and my big mouth, got me tortured and kilt.
I lay the blame at my own door.
Long live the reformation.
Or, better yet, instead of enjoying The Count of Monte Christo. Instead you should be counting the bastards as they come in and head out from the bar that night.
Cause they all joined in.
Every last one of them.
So I am going back to where that slight stream split and became Two Rivers. And I am going to answer them in my own way.
I no longer care which amongst us is the bravest.
I have lived my life, with a chanced four ace hand on the table before me
On the felt. So I could always win if I wanted too.
But I just couldn't make myself want it....
So I always pushed back the pot right at the big gamblers
Until a lawyer broke my nose.
You are brave. I am brave. We are all brave occasionally.
But this time I gotta ask
Where this plastic fear of yours comes from?
This machine extruded pasta,
Like the plastic parts of a child's toy truck
So this is what life is for?
Yes. Yes it is.
Among those who play each day
With an immaculate and impeccable hatred.