08-23-2013, 01:56 AM
"There is no new god under the sun."
Said the Voice of God.
The ape of Snoopy's Brother with the whiskers said,
"What about above the sun?"
"Don't be an asshole."
God said.
The ape of Snoopy's brother, that felt too nourished
by the meadows where he crept,
sighed a lonely sigh,
and went back to the desert to watch tv.
The man in purple had a heart attack:
And the hero of these tales
named it after his great grandfather, "Charlie".
Charlie Brown.
Such is the retelling
of the Greatest Story Never Told.
The story of Charlie Brown's dream,
after so much sadness and so many mishaps
only the age of Snoopy understands.
In an alternate version,
much in a future time,
Charlie Brown and the Devil met an alchemist
in a secret place in Colorado.
They merged Brown's unrequited love
of the color red
and his creator's love for jazzy blue:
The purple garbs they invented then
sent over hundreds of miles,
Fed Ex,
reached the heart attack in time
for the evil muse to be reborn.
The Great Male Muse
broke punk before it came;
and after Charlie and the Devil died,
he pulled, of all political scandals,
from a hat,
the name of the hero of our tales:
That's the man who made money
writing this.
. . . . .
In the basement
of the belly of a whale
is the madhouse
where the angels put the believers
that no longer believe.
The purgatory of tv
saw his most famous novel
mutilated into a movie.
He sat and watched,
drug oblivious,
among the flashing blue screen
and the boxes of digital tidal waves
rising and falling,
dragging,
pulling his stifled nerves
up and down
into crudely dripping pink floyds
that bled like actual sweat
from the dry claymation
of his Ludovico-like eyes.
All the sense he ever had,
they then had him vomit
into a pan.
Next, they placed a helmet
on the head
he dreamt from
when he dreamed,
strapped a strep
across his throat,
recorded the broadcasts
picked up by the fillings in his teeth,
took the wiry whiskers
from his chin
and set up an antenna
to get the signals once sent to him
from the Purple Man,
then from God, Himself.
And when all was said and done,
Woodstock dressed as Jesus
opened a bar in Colorado,
so Snoopy's true brother could go
and drink, and watch tv,
and not feel so utterly,
utterly
alone;
now that everyone was gone.
Coda:
It is only the frenzied minds of men,
not angels, dare describe
the humiliations of the divine.
If it's true that no man is an island,
though no one would say such but Man,
there are things not said, only written
in closet-mad prayers of despair:
Every mind has a Bible of its own.
One's madness is another's world.
Though each death goes on without us,
we all go with it when it goes.
So after many lost causes, wrong cues and false starts,
the world finally comes to an end
when God breaks his long silence:
Not by a whimper nor a bang;
but with an embarrassing fart held in for centuries.
Said the Voice of God.
The ape of Snoopy's Brother with the whiskers said,
"What about above the sun?"
"Don't be an asshole."
God said.
The ape of Snoopy's brother, that felt too nourished
by the meadows where he crept,
sighed a lonely sigh,
and went back to the desert to watch tv.
The man in purple had a heart attack:
And the hero of these tales
named it after his great grandfather, "Charlie".
Charlie Brown.
Such is the retelling
of the Greatest Story Never Told.
The story of Charlie Brown's dream,
after so much sadness and so many mishaps
only the age of Snoopy understands.
In an alternate version,
much in a future time,
Charlie Brown and the Devil met an alchemist
in a secret place in Colorado.
They merged Brown's unrequited love
of the color red
and his creator's love for jazzy blue:
The purple garbs they invented then
sent over hundreds of miles,
Fed Ex,
reached the heart attack in time
for the evil muse to be reborn.
The Great Male Muse
broke punk before it came;
and after Charlie and the Devil died,
he pulled, of all political scandals,
from a hat,
the name of the hero of our tales:
That's the man who made money
writing this.
. . . . .
In the basement
of the belly of a whale
is the madhouse
where the angels put the believers
that no longer believe.
The purgatory of tv
saw his most famous novel
mutilated into a movie.
He sat and watched,
drug oblivious,
among the flashing blue screen
and the boxes of digital tidal waves
rising and falling,
dragging,
pulling his stifled nerves
up and down
into crudely dripping pink floyds
that bled like actual sweat
from the dry claymation
of his Ludovico-like eyes.
All the sense he ever had,
they then had him vomit
into a pan.
Next, they placed a helmet
on the head
he dreamt from
when he dreamed,
strapped a strep
across his throat,
recorded the broadcasts
picked up by the fillings in his teeth,
took the wiry whiskers
from his chin
and set up an antenna
to get the signals once sent to him
from the Purple Man,
then from God, Himself.
And when all was said and done,
Woodstock dressed as Jesus
opened a bar in Colorado,
so Snoopy's true brother could go
and drink, and watch tv,
and not feel so utterly,
utterly
alone;
now that everyone was gone.
Coda:
It is only the frenzied minds of men,
not angels, dare describe
the humiliations of the divine.
If it's true that no man is an island,
though no one would say such but Man,
there are things not said, only written
in closet-mad prayers of despair:
Every mind has a Bible of its own.
One's madness is another's world.
Though each death goes on without us,
we all go with it when it goes.
So after many lost causes, wrong cues and false starts,
the world finally comes to an end
when God breaks his long silence:
Not by a whimper nor a bang;
but with an embarrassing fart held in for centuries.
Keep up the great work. I am looking forward to reading your work in the future.