Matt's Garden

Don't pick him from his ready garden,
ripe like grapes there under the sun.

Don't take him from his toiling moment,
ripped from his work yet still undone.

The wine needs aging, can't you see it,
only the best served at this sweet spread.

Enter with your merry voices,
and greet the host who now is dead.

Pretty cameras, sit like pictures,
lining shelves and saying cheese.
'Taste the tapas atop this platter,
yes of course, pick as you please.'

Have you ever seen such display of hunger,
feeding the night and unwinding the mind.
Fires that flicker across the platitudes,
with umbrella smiles under coconut eyes.

Sands that whisper under foot shuffles,
flavors that drift with smoke on the night.
The doings of him who flits on the laughter,
that kisses the cheeks and turns out the lights.

Read us your books and tell us your theories,
remind us all we can 'just go to pot.'
Preach the perils of communist banter,
and smile the smirk we all know you've got.

Jingle around in Christmas-land wonder,
forgetting your trousers as well as your cap.
"Take a shot and pull a Jinga,"
and lucky loosers get your lap.

Turn your cap, and toss your jacket,
park the monster upon the lawn.
Sit this time, for just a moment,
and let's pretend that your not gone.

Let's take a moment in the garden
and we'll pretend its overgrown.
So overgrown it is a thicket,
so overgrown it hides us well,
so overgrown it muffles voices,
when we tell the neighbor to go to hell.

Sit again by Bri's dry fountain,
and we'll flick cigarettes at the angel within.
Pour one more glass of your brimming spirit
and let's murmer about how nothing makes sense.