The Chauffeurs' Creed

Je suis la légende
I am David
I am a Magician
A Wizard
Mystical, clear through time and rhyme
Pulled mightily from the outskirts of town
Play children, as the night prays a waterfall
Lost early in the moon's silver map of foment
A worldly buzz enters menopause as Saturn gulps the horizon
A peep, a crow, a symbol jumps ship
Let it be what the Gods see will be
For it is better to be naked before the Gods, than dressed in Gold before men
Set sail before the horizon of the new Israel
Listen closely as the water whips the face of old men and tyrants
Brittle defined monarchs pinch and pull the poor for sway
Who creeps through night time's drama?
Stop!
Stare!
And whistle?
As the man of youth with six tongued nipples perches atop the ship
Each nipple winking life evolves through his chest and arms
Sad sailing for the men of Merriment
Upon the mountain sits a soul
Burning through meter and time
A man, lo and behold, under the distress of seconds
And why does he wait and contemplate a merry Jezebel
or play a harp under the cold and tired sky?
Because he can...
Sorrow is the wonderment of joy and joy lost for moments
But, pleasure underneath it all
Quietly
Under the hush
of a bush
pleasure and pain are one
Coils of snakes and salamanders press against the flesh
A ticking time of soft secretion, of mellow impales to rein emotions
Thrust against the dark
In just the one pure tender box, alas
An island now is in the clear and stands alone and waiting
And seven virgins with seven swords play their passion play
Each taking the turn of Christ and martyrdom, while the other six just play
Each damsel dressed in white, but they’re mighty torn and frayed
and -- for a moment --- a smile of acknowledgement
The vessel moves to grandpa's hills while shallow moon men play
Who never existed and never were and never will be again
The sadness of mythology lost, replaced with dirt's decay
In the glimmer hope of minor Napoleon flair,
A saddle, a horse, a steed and a conqueror to be
But, who lies in beds a-sleeping a million miles apart?
No one
And now the striker, the Vardoulacha, the cold fist in the night will surely come and play
A club footed "Don Juan" posed in hidden woods pressed against the nearest steel
Tight and cold and long with mania a-milled
He lifts, he spreads, he opens, he sows and wonders and is gone
Back to the Chauffeurs' Creed.

Joseph B. St. John is the owner and publisher of Real Story Publishing. He is committed to truth in writing and the advancement of the arts. He can be reached at stjohnjb@aol.com.

Find more by Joseph B. St. John in the Author Index.

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