The Cabbage Patch IV (fin)




words and photo by : Telegraphy


 Four seasons ago I stood here with an open heart, reluctant to be who I am in this town with a closed hearted  people. The more I ponder having my piece of mind known, the more I have a dying confidence.

 It's a long way to my destination. Short cutting through the other side, passing by derelict empty new born souls of conjoined inter-racial couples, signals the end of this trip of my experience.

 The weeds grow in this city as fast as the pockets of the elite business man, tucked away underneath his honers chair. "My god - look at those vines. They've consumed that building " "Na, that's just frustrated house wives in yoga class contorting their dense reckless egos, hoping to catch the innocent libido of a young boy.

 Streaming down this path of old in a town where two cabbages are hold, a patch where we all lay our conscience folds. I ingest this mystic seed, to dream, with my eyes open to me. We all end up in this same dirt, where cabbages were once submerged. All too our worldly lies,  truths grow out of this patch, most deeply in urge. 

 Sprocket in my heart lie on the breasts of chicken headed ladies. Conjuring up his magic, the town idiot's hobby as a professor, cranks this sprocket actuating advanced mathematical computations from the ladies  explaining the mysteries of idiots.  

 Unsuspecting red lite dungeon compromises his own credibility as his wife flees across the boarder for the last time. The goons, the goons, the loons are out to dance in the full moon light, blond virgins follow hoping to be swooned.

  Paper houses sitting pretty for their next victim's. A collage lesbian couple maybe.  Their leaving. NO! Their fleeing towards the setting sun in the south, just follow tracks of hopeless dreams. Have a crepe before I leave, dust off those table where people had never eat.

 Quick block them in, build a wall around this town to keep them out. A fortuitous fortress we construct with no choice. Barricade their path inward. The loons, the loons their coming to take our daughters. Skipping down the street in platform shoes and candied shorts, taunting rats on their way to church, the daughters conjure up goddess from the patch.                      

  Streaming down this path of old in a town where two cabbages are hold, a patch where we all lay our conscience folds. I ingest this mystic seed, to dream, with my eyes open to me. We all end up in this same dirt, where cabbages were once submerged. All too our worldly lies,  truths grow out of this patch, most deeply in urge.

  There she is once again, riding around in her golden chariot, hermetically sealed from outside prying ears. They gather around her as if she were queen of  this patch. Stop yelling at me with your sharp tong, that mong yellow handbag you carry is only weaker then the chimp you carry in it. If only your coin operated heart can convince the whole neighborhood of your true self.

 Follow the tunnel exiting  the lake and you will find the cavernous void of this city. The underworld beings fest on nonjudgmental eroticisms of the populous. Peeking through the trap door under this hill of field coils, I contemplate my own realization of this experience only having a knee pads made of beetle shells to show for it all.

  Elm tree's blooming jealousy in the spring morning bend over around me. The complex conforming communication they convey is consuming for my conscientious of this career. Her looney cidal methods taunt my will to sleep on this stone dawn matters. "I think I have a bad back" "No, it's just my hidden delight to see you suffer stabbing you in the back", she said as she quickly puts on her mask of pleasantries.

 Throwing the sharked tooth jousting stick onto the ground, it gets quickly sponged up by my thick lush green lawn of confusion. "This town ain't small enough for the one of us", I semaphored out to the rat commander perched in the elm tree's. Dressed in masonic sheepskins, the rat materialized a glowing orb of wisdom to signal my completed experience.     
            
 Streaming down this path of old in a town where two cabbages are hold, a patch where we all lay our conscience folds. I ingest this mystic seed, to dream, with my eyes open to me. We all end up in this same dirt, where cabbages were once submerged. All too our worldly lies,  truths grow out of this patch, most deeply in urge.
 
  Four seasons ago I stood here with an open heart, reluctant to be who I am in this town with a closed hearted  people. The more I ponder having my piece of mind known, the more I have a dying confidence.

                                                                           fin