Shepherds of Lost Sleep

Shepherds of Lost Sleep

Oh stalwart shepherds,
overturned like pancakes from
oiled pans of endless pastures to the
burnt side of watered parcels divided by
greedy bureaucratic diaphragms with yardsticks,
praying to gods of violated articles of civil law,
stamping permits, and pushing fines for
grass longer than a limp medium
or so sized dick.

Easier to find GOD in days fear bedded prudence;

as when three found by starlight what’s
reduced to half filled varnish starved pews
for minutes less than evening news:

Souls of donated stale hardened donuts,
sulfide coffee grounds fuming in superficial basement
gatherings perfumed with the decrepit
punge of damp rags plunged into cartoon corner holes of
mice for seven days in dog years.

Oh attendance of warped insisted tradition,
elating a population of fifty percent MAOI inhibited
minds racing past salvation;

an evaporated sense, like noses of
cat lovers sniffing piss covered clothes.

The putrid flesh of dreams sacrificed to lost sleep
lost on the canvas of night, are left for
wolves to glean while shepherds sleep in.