where the writers are
The Ferryman

The world I want’s not on this side,
Here, Pompeii’s embrace crumbles in a fresh breeze,
Last I looked, and I always look,
Ruinous canyons speak of ghostly joy,
Apparitions resigned to lore.

At a glance, all looks green and lush,
Cultivated from Charon’s lurid black seed,
Arid, grainy, brotherly blood,
Share heroin through tainted needlepoint pricks,
Shining eyes of truth fall sullen.

Wake up! I call into the deep,
Don’t wonder upon Babylon’s mighty reign!
The Sorcerer traded his trade,
His artist’s brush still a sick wand dripping filth,
Rape now concealed under white gowns!

“Rebel!” echo the eyeless masses,
“Stop coloring our sepia paradise!
Stop your capricious pandering!
Follow us, our wisdom’s worth its weight in gold,
Don’t be a fool, boy, stay with us.”

Gutted holes covered by Ray-Bans,
Their sly, cool look tempts me to capitulate,
But I’ve seen their raven-picked skulls,
Leaving the skiff would only betray my guide,
I fiercely fight their convention.

Some in stark deserts grieve and wail,
Some bask in the tenacious beauty that lives,
I choose to thrive in-between them,
Jonah, to countless captives of the former,
Joshua, to the joyous rest.