Instrumental Tongue, Tell The Tale To Dance To

The tongues of creation, sang a melody to dance to.
He was named Lyric to clear throat, and spit us from his lips
For the last time, ‘til we meet again, we fly
It is beautied wind that carries us to our destination,
It is Earth mother that opens her bosom to soften our descent into what is fated and full.
Her instincts swell her and we now inhale in a mirrored mocking of worship
Sister moon ebbed her waters and we then exhale to mimic the waving retreat
It is Wings break off in the landing, while we skid in a torrent of plumage to our sold out destinations They flew into Clouds were made this day, and man looked up and saw birds and bunnies and revolution

That day, a long time ago, we had fetted hands, fingers stretched to another and grasped for a sign that we feel now, and forever young and crawling we bobbed our heads to the beat of mother’s bosom. That heart ticked away slowly and calculated to a melody of our love Beat beat beat, said her bosom, and we knocked it back, beat beat.

Instrumental tongue sang out to Lyric’s strained cords,
A harmony Fell even unto the ears of the deaf, the dumb Danced and the dead now Trembled in righteous anticipation.
Bulls were Cast in gold and finned twin fish in silver, and Quartz Gods Settled their ass cheeks into alters while Instrumental Tongue Talked to us.
Listening follied voodoos Pricked up their ears and Picked up their feet, paraded in the sands of lovers
While Bedded children, full and trembled sang along Stravinsky’s foul notes,
While Lullibied beasts of night time reign bequeathed the throne to those in gloried rays,
He called out to antagonized widowed weepers, bandaged with ropes, in a fevered splendor, do you not dance?
Filling the streets with chameleon love struck lovers,
A pulse Rang throughout, omnipotent and splendid, vibrating the strings between us and between us,
While he called out to Creole tongued musicians brass lipped and sun burnt
They Smiled in the fleeting recognition of him, and inspired all, then with their song
The Rasti’s pot stained fingers snapped to the beat of mother’s bosom
While Monocled catholic children, kneeled and Pitied the yogis and chai drinkers while They smiled in recognition
tranny hookers pulled on pumps and clicked their heels to the beat
While peg legged pirates stubbed their toes on the isles left behind, while the yacht men paraded breadcrumbs of nickel and gold.

Balances were lost on our day of plum. The balance was there before lyric called out the name of you and me and Faeder Ure, my grandfather’s grandfather and yours
That balance was there before the beat beat of mother’s bosom and Yo- tongues creation song, that balance was there and that balance still Is. Open your ears and see that syllable called om. Open your eyes and hear the silence between the beat beat beat.
Instrumental tongue does not ask why we dance only of us that we do
Through the shivers of a fevered Earth mother, feel that temperature rise, to cure, and mollify a scale of pebbled clinkin’ happenings
Know that the beat beat will be bounced back, and we will live on through the shrill trill of earthquakes and quivers.
Know that we will pick up the pieces of our alters that crumbled like stale bread.
Know that we will evolve and revolve back to the embedded hibernation of conscious realization taking stock in nothing at all.
Know that the beat beat of her bosom will carry us all,
Know that we know all when we were young, and filled our heads with the judgments of humanity. Know that we can once again smile in the ebbing waters and beautied wind,

Know that we will once again take airs and be spoon fed back to heaven.