Pub Questions For God

I’ve oft wondered in the clam pockets

And dingy dungeons of sleepless sleep,

If paradise is simply an inverted dream,

Spun wild from gold

Now wintered, spent, ingloriously old,

Stranded in quarters reserved to gally

Our spider sly upwards tremble of a crawl

Towards the waking and winking stars,

Where truth condemns her knowing to obfuscated riddles,

That God never intended to give ear to?

The hobbling old man raises a grail to desert lips,

And drinks up to long ago sailed away ghosts,

That parted through time’s

Charmed enigmatic mists,

Only to sink

And never to float.

And he sings off key like a paranoid ambulance scream,

Breathless chaser after chaser,

In between melodic snatches of amnesiac songs,

Sourced from a creaky film reel mind

Feebly roaring through its tentative loop with furious steam,

That always slithers a simmering glimmer

Of head scratching cosmogonal showers,

As his lost echo pulses, dies down and bleeds,

While he hunts through the unearthed glow

Of a dream’s stubborn playful light

Now dug up from a fog shrouded brain,

As it warps, darts and weaves,

Through bent projections,

And dead transmissions

From unswept nebula’s torchlight gleam,

As he asks aloud to God with blithe uncertainty;

“Perhaps paradise is an undreamed dream,

That never was,

Or was it

A dream undreamed,

That bulwarked her beauties

In tedium’s sobered dried eyes,

Where the start of our dreams

Begin at the end of our lives?”

And he drowns deep in scotch,

And whistles a tune,

That charges the air

With hope and with ruin.

And everyone stares

As if this were true;

For if life is a lie,

Then are we one too?