a matter of taste

a matter of taste

a matter of style

vulgarity rearranged

from the darkness

into sweet lyrics

from the light

into nightmare

from our godhead

here comes the devil

the same face

under different mask

telling me stories

of fair angels fighting ancient demons

across the bedrock of ideals

i remain confused 

as the beginning has been lost to me

and the ending i can never see

i might as well just smoke some weed

in style and good taste

Author's Note

Reviews

[RomaJ]

I love how this poem moves between the divine and the absurd, angels and demons across “the bedrock of ideals,” yet ends in a wry, human shrug. Sometimes clarity is elusive, and we just inhabit the chaos with style.

[Davidgeo]

I think everyone understands deep down inside that we will never remember our beginning and we really don't want to remember our end. If you never really see the beginning and the end remains opaque, it's very difficult to make sense of the middle... and maybe that's just perfect because (this place harbors something terrifying beyond the middle, either way)