Eden by Nicole Terry Come to the Garden of Waste. Come watch all the swollen bellies taste the efforts of Labor hidden away tucked underneath History's gaze. Not too deep, not too deep; far down there lives the Maze. Amazed? or Amused by the Garden Museum's confused Display of pomp.  “Misfit, you have no place in line.Be glad They haven't taken to ticking off your time.” ‘Group Number 1, Group Number One, the order of your slaughter is begun!’ ‘Fall in line 2s, fall in Line, at the blue-blood round table there is much to discuss.’ The same symbol of simplicity you wear around your neck— you call it Religion and They call it yoke. You are a spoke in the Big Wheel. Careful or They'll sell it to you when you purchase your meal ticket. Just because you see no harness does not mean you are not pulling the cart. You can fool yourself forever in your carnival dance, at least until They decide to unionize your chance at the glass top title. Certified now, are you? or are you just pretending, but don't know it? They hate you, I'm sure you don't realize that you are just a pitiful product of their complex lies. You do not care if you do see; you would question truth and its validity.   Look, at the grotesque movement of swollen belly souls: They eat and they are morbidly obese, trading everything for an illusion of peace. You cannot appease them, their minds are too thin. It is why they run in circles hoping to bite the carrot while they spin. Beware: some are clever enough to use Their manuals to discover how the masters think, but then they are imitators; Pretenders just the same, thinking they have earned Knighthood at the round table, when indeed they are servants chewing on rotten meat. Do not be deceived, for these types delude you best. Their test has no right answer if all your Questions are correct. Yes, the Garden smells sweet, but that is its only charm. The aroma of green feces is how it does most harm. Plug your orifices and guard your eyes, for this is how the King sodomized all those before you searching as you do for an external Truth. If you were Truly wise you would travel along by your own wits and not pick up the trail mix of glamorously dressed twits. Pay no mind to those howlers in the Garden, they have no idea the account of their burden. Superior imbeciles all of them, hypocrites the best of them. They are dead, in fact, obsolete; they have only forgotten to fall off their feet. They would tempt you with an eloquent feast and attack should you refuse to eat. Those animals have nothing to hide, so attempt to buy any stranger's well-done smoke. It is the lead trickery that consumes them while producing solid gold. Had you thought anything else happened in the Glutton Garden? Their bloated bellies still feel empty; it is why they race to refill their plates with another term from the council of old mens' sperm. Would it satisfy you if patricians pacified you?   No! No! No! You miss the point of it all. The Garden exists; yes, and even those pitiful swollen-belly beasts, but the feast which They promise and you seek to apprehend is nothing more than glimmer and carefully planned words. I suppose you had to find out that none of this is real, not even I, but better you hear it from me. . . Now go you're Free  © Copyright 2008 Nicole Terry ALL RIGHTS RESERVED   [back to Poems] [Sensual Poetry]