BACCHUS GRAPES

It is raining Bacchus grapes

on the Mardi Gras

and the women

gape their mouths open catching them

and for just one day

to be a pagan, they sing

gorging on the lustful grapes

they create

spinning

in semi unconsciousness.

The morning semen leaves no traces

of just

who was the lover in the bed

that left

a quintessential cry of abandonment.

Bacchus grapes, you blame them

but in the heart of trust

you asked for this one day.

to be free

and unbridled

and let Sin wash over you like a river. 

Non-repenting and fearing no God

you think

you disserve to act like an animal

and become

a lower life species.

Guised

by the name ‘Party’ the word is elusive

a chain and lock buster

that goes against

what you know is right and justified.

Free love

once created free love children

today look

at the transgressions and understand

that no one is responsible

for these failures are not triumphs.

Whose blood

and whose character is infused

without an identity

as an adoptive child?

Careless we are

to unplug the river from the dam

for we all

become embedded by mistakes

and shall ‘one day’

make a memorable moment?

Bacchus grapes, fall ever so gently

and the abundance

of heads

he turns upwards

is the ambiance echo of grapes falling:

the emergence

and grieve disbursements

of darkness on the ground.

Dwellers

of gravity on the ground we are

absorbing anything

that falls from the sky above.

Why not has your hunger

reached to the God

of Wisdom and the infinite sublime

escalating your mind forward?

Our stupidities are vile

and we

all make these absurd judgments.

Bacchus grapes

while pure in appearance

are murky and textured like petroleum

blackening

your body from angelic approaches.

A fest of improprieties

England

should never turn its backs on the awkward.

Bacchus grapes- treasures of the dark.