Thelonious

The Alba Madonna

What incense have you buried under bristling grounds Madonna?

Malice habitats your stool, you don't hold strong your fortress

Why do you rekindle my fire Madonna?

Your sweet kiss of halo dissembles your proximity, venomous mistress

Plaguing our tangible spirits, trapped in your hallucinogenic daze

Guarding your identity Isis as Horus beholds crucifixes as if fazed

Paper tigers have fleecy skin and weary feathers

Prophetic words are now working your centers

Organic minds obliterating you into splinters

Cooked and canned eulogies come in a basket brewed from underground mentals

A fool will paint his ties and mystify denotation, like bionic souls emerging as sentimental

Spew your fallacies and stop us haunting mysteries of third eyes

Sticking needles in your shadow, bare feet and thistles familiarize

Blank sheets are calling out to awakenings as if the revolution could be televised

Tears cried in true essence of broken mental ties

Fears scuffled into fragments of your frequent rotten lies

All painted and portrayed in this thesis...

I speak spiritual constipation like faeces

Words off tantrums and silence like peace is

Navigating a tableau, picturing Isis in a sheep skin of Mary

Maybe then, The Alba Madonna isn't so merry...