The relentless barrage of inspiration continues:
I’m a man on a mission – like a monastery under siege
can’t stand the kitchen, but I’m not despairing of the heat
not dispirited, got prepared for it, flame retardant
with napalm aplomb, but a Nomex tailored garment
behold, the pain I’m far from, and I know that fame and stardom
are around the corner, at the town border, my trade is jargon
shakin heads and breakin legs, I’m sick of the same retarded
lame garbage, awake in my bed – debating martyrdom
I hate what art’s become, glass houses and naked architects
get back in your closet, quit actin out, you play the part perfect
at it for profit, eagerness to please – explains part of
the reason to me – deceitfulness and greed – have stained artists
and the polyurethane – is me when I prolly urinate
stream of consciousness, when I honor it – with a turn of phrase
patron of the arts, a Braveheart – to be still involved with this
I’m Paul William Wallace – killin off a – million ostriches
head in the sand – like you’re waitin for Ed McMahon
to clear your house, fear and doubt – give you a head of sand
I’m targetin carcasses for resurrection, and the best medicine
is the lightbulb – inside you, you’re the next Edison
or maybe not it, poor baby otter, maybe nada
maybe Lady Gaga’s – just Davy Crockett – in drag ridin Haley’s Comet…
© 2011 Paul Will Prevail
OUT