Too iconic, like some unthinkable
Beast leaping out a child’s throat,
Wielding its claws as switchblades
(Or bullets or bombs),
Planting red lips upon the sleeping,
Bringing innocence to its knees.
Too much, God damn it!
Too rich! Too immeasurable
Like a pedophile’s rancid erection
Penetrating a child’s flaccid faith
Etched within youth’s center;
They’ll choose not to speak of it-
A secret... censored between fleshes.
A voice hollowed out,
Suppressed like a fearless work of art.
Too dirty! Too ungodly! Too iconic!
Who needs such art, such temptation?
(Flesh without cover)
Can’t have the commoners thinking such
Rigid ideas, might cause a mutiny…
Let us have cockle shells
And other silent dreamings;
Not essentials like art and reflection.
No! Too difficult! Too insurmountable;
A child’s dream or a mother’s breast.
Best keep such things under wraps,
Hidden where they belong.
Too filthy! Too profane!
Too iconic like some naughty child
Jumping out the belly of a beast,
Wielding his mind as a paintbrush
(Or a pen or a dance),
Moving his thoughts over the nobility
Bringing them to their knees.
© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman