A Crocodile With A Porcupine Poem by Margaret Alice
A Crocodile With A Porcupine
The crocodile with a porcupine on her head
sidled down to the library at a temperature of
35 degrees, crying in abject self-pity, no water
anywhere, no swamp nearby, walking on heated
feet, a burning pavement, remembering all life
supposed to be sacred, awareness is good
No more for this crocodile - awareness is
terrible in heat like this, being a bureaucratic
denizen of the netherworld of red-tape society
in the 21st century means no creative work, no
morality, only an ethics of serving the Moloch
of a paperless Internet society
Smothering the soul, burying the passions,
living the life of the undead – apparently, that
is what we are, our soul lives forever, but in
physical we are only undead while in non-
physical we are truly alive – thank heaven,
I can’t wait to progress from Mother
Earth, human society is an inter-subjective
construct aimed at suffering to cleanse our
spirit – from what I don’t know, probably the
desire to live – I am almost totally cured,
never wanting to live in physical ever again!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/10/2024 5:24:21 PM # 1.0.0.1119
At the barbeque for the king Or was it the queen I can't remember it has been So long ago when We were gay and fancy free But the bullock chosen was well fed So that the spring of ribs Encased a humongous gut Once filled with feeds and such And once led to the slaughter Was bled and emptied Prepared for the stuffing But there's more for they were prepared in a line The sheep A pig A goose A hen Small birds freshly shot Then mushrooms And spices all begot Each and ever rubbed and anointed With oils and wines and assorted Preparations of such flavors That tempt those in their endeavors A mix of salts and peppers Finally completed the dusting Then in sequence large to small Each was stuffed into the waiting walls Laced up with a bit of gut Carefully washed to ensure no retention Before being placed Into the awaiting cavern Till with completeness the Bullock freshly skinned and treated Is above the fire suspended Turning on the spit for hours Without end, the sides Anointed again With an oily blend The aroma, smell if you like Raising above the smoke And glowing coals Until the total, a mass of Brown and gold Fit for a king it was and is Here we have the best For those who live in physical again! And the crocodile beacons those near To remove their headdress and appear As they are, wanton and lost amongst The others gathered for the feast. Devouring Feeding on the internet's gore.