The Belly Of The Beast Poem by Patti Masterman
The Belly Of The Beast
Lost in the belly of the beast,
We look up and see all those curving arches,
And we think then that we're in some majestic cathedral;
But the next sloping corridor takes us down to the mortuary,
The processing station, for what we are busy turning into.
But we still ignore the smell, as we're too busy believing
That for us, a great feast is being prepared-
Just like children at christmas time
Always believe the world is organized solely around them;
Only to give them lots of gifts and candy.
But we are the final meal being prepared;
We are the last sacrifice
To the pagan gods of old,
Who we only thought had been retired by now
Into dusty chests of antiquity;
They are the ones will eat our body, drink our blood
As their sacrament, of a new millenium,
And it is our children will suffer the labor pangs
Birthing their dreams; and not ours:
Because we have never grown up enough
To realize the fairy tales have not been true,
And that they have never been about us at all.
WHERE TO BEGIN? I can't sleep - I can't go out - I'm possessed with a demon who takes advantage of me in my sleep and so i style myself I - A - I. To try to keep what litle sanity i have left - I write poetry - Poesie tres tres Noire. It frightens me and it frightens all my readers and none of them have the temerity to coment at length. OK I - A - I at the risk of being turned into a TOAD (or worse) - I have read - I must comment or I will disinegrate with you! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! . We all live in a Fantasy World and so often (just like Jonah & Others) we find ourselves in 'The Belly of a Beast'. So huge that we puny humans ignore the bones and the rancidity and peep about to find oureselves dishonorable graves. 'However we are too busy believing' - even in 2010 - that we will find Utopia round the next rib. We belive all myth is dead and consigned to the 'Dusty chests of iniquity' - but we will never lose grip on our fairy tales - and just see that they are only meant for our children and our children's children - and then only transiently? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? . I have not scored this poem because if I scored it ZERO - I would become a Toad (or worse) or if I scored it TEN you would only write another one - so i will score it a hypothetical FIVE and hedge my bets. Whoever you are - you have painted a picture of deep deep depair and an abyss which is almost inescapable. NeverheIess I remain your true servant in Poetry - and if you are going to cast a spell - let me be a Bird of Paradise rather than a Toad - JOHN THE OPTIMIST.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/17/2024 4:33:31 PM # 1.0.0.1119
To the pagan gods of old! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.