
Beholden Eye
by Jason John Bartholomew
We’re the whirling dervish, those little dirt witches, down in the gutter feasting on our supper.
By half-past to the weekend go on and purchase yourself half a hollow man or half a devil’s dozen.
It’s not a handout if we party with our cocks out.
Least that’s our story told from the outer rim in the postcards from the edge that we write ourselves.
It’s a little bit of heaven, a little bit of hell,a whole lot of troubin’ the water with a whole bunch of nothing.
We’ll turn the fishes into bones and the loaves into stone, the water turned wine we pour into the brine, and we suffer, suffer the children to come when the children come.
And they come from the outer places by all the inroads to the down low low downtown at the heart of the center to hear the pulse whisper and to wait in the corridor.
and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait
and they wait and they wait and they wait and they wait
and they wait and they wait and they wait to fly the kite dragon. what we know, they don’t; they’ll just die waiting on nothing
Yeah, we suffer, we suffer-suffer the children, suffer them to cum.
With our sour spit and breath like vinegar, we take what we want and laugh like hyenas, frothing anaphylactic mouths talking ‘bout how we’re The Free.
Then we get down on our knees and kiss the master’s ring and take in our mouth our daily sacrement to fly in the sky with the winged serpent.
If the Great Prince of Lies had an impersonator, would that then make me the truth sayer?
Is Golden Boy beholden?
August 22, 2017
