Ode to Mark Stewart

A human built around a microphone
Never slouches into where boredom nests,
But stares into the beauty of each day
Only to spit life into a cannon.

Barbaric flames feast on our temple doors.
Laughter slinging from shambling walls
Of noise pummels away the sacred mountains
And reveals the valleys of barren noise.

But I easily cull the joy of things
Obtrusive and obscene. The incessant
Mush that bombards me is the everyday
Silence. But, he is not even aware
Like a child burning toys before his
Hopeless parents. Beauty is for the weak.

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