Those Forgotten Epyllians

"The more we elaborate our means of communication, the less we communicate". — J.B. Priestly

Squatting in thick skinned caves,
paged westward we became, nothing more
than fix for fancy flying
with our red prints upon the wall.

Standing up, only to advertise
barnstorm trofts of consumption, our dives
prettied up to look appealing, Mag Mell
no longer appeared the hell of passing over,

as you read skeleton specials
of dexter,and sinister; made to order
fingertips greasily dipped, their stain dying
days in still, and moving delivery.

Scratching of men, a linen refinement,
pearled gates were opened with neon light
while grilling sin was announced,
iron, smoky hot, and mine.

Epics were authored
cooking up that fashionable course
pressed with deliberate,yet delicate
tastes to be finessed, but not fed.
And our vulgar colors tried

to shed their boorish furs still,
baring it all just to make it home alive.
Numen, filling inside you, does little
for appetite when you know release
can only be found in a boned patois.

Walk along forearms of strength,
decipher this blue bill of fare.
Weakness fried out letters long ago,
and the right text in menus is found
when carved deep, and un-limited.

Compulsive apertures sandwich
lyrics, as language dreamt slick,
never truly grasping onto
the meat of our tongue.

Epics were authored,
impulses chucking through,
as other roots sifted
ergot poverty in search
of a less spattered mash to chew upon.

But there was no sacred stone
to mill clean these grains;
Just a gathering of dirt
from our stocked hides, leavened
and baked into crusty humanity.

And our hands, our hands still extend
outward, and upward, muscled
along the spit and span steps of Heaven,
stripping us, whispering to you

"Write it all down appealingly."
But we were ground, and rolled perfectly,
as every word was nailed,
edged within our palms.

Epics were authored,
and you all sailed away on that good ship,
past solid shore lines countering
Earth into mythos mistook
for a golden arch within reach.

So few can actually walk on water though.
Something solid underneath
requires inspection with bloody knuckles.
Offering up our lowest points,
browsers soak in the ecstasy of salty want.

We are the epidermis of your biographies;
That bind of taut no longer to be hid
like leavings at the bottom of the vat.
Watch us dip, and tip from your staunch stoic shelf.

Beauty is printed brazen, and bold
here in this mall of a grave.
Study it with the respect of a apprentice.
We are not delicious little icons
for you to thumb through.

No, Epic was not created with you.
It was simply authored in concocted courts
scrubbed clean by grimy digits,still stubbing
along hellish choices as you peruse.

Someday our anatomy will be footnoted though,
those epyllians of enduring breath;
Where, and when we stood up
out of dinge, and dreg,
bellowing from unpoetical lungs
to Heaven, and against Hell

"I have served your sentence enough."