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Mathew 13 (Reblogged from Curmudgeon)


((Mathew 13 An original poem by I, Curmudgeon))



Mustard Seeds, Mustard Seeds,
Aren't we all just Mustard seeds?
Some on good ground,
Some on bad,
Wanting earth we never had. 



Death to authors!
Cast your stones!
Choke them with your wishing bones!



Drag the sock puppets through the streets
Whip them, kick them, flog and beat
Prove your own divine free will
Stab them with your writing quill.



Take the pages bleach them white
Shred the wings of every kite.
Stab the willing in the back
Only take your own feedback.



Torch the critic,
Burn the words
Roast them with your cooking birds.
Trim the window with raven’s beaks
Nevermore to hear them speak.



Call the angels,
Call your Gods,
Shrive the living
Shoe the shod.
Quote the obvious as if no one there
Ever lived in your little square.



Cry the angels,
Beat the weak.
Shred the tongues of those who speak.


Some on good ground,
Some on bad,
What ground have you never had?



Praise their paintings!
Sing their songs!
Kill the artist!
Life’s too long.



Show your anger, shake your fist.
Prove to them you damaged this.
Tear your hearts out,
Wail your walls!
Show your devil's trips and falls.



Mustards Seeds on hallowed ground,
Self-proclaimed the world around.
Label some good, others bad
Believe the fevered dreams as you had.



Now let our sainted Matthew come,
To tell of Jesus’ Martyrdom.
Hear him cry and let him speak
Let him tell of Mustard Seeds.



Show your product,
Shout your name
Tell them all from whence you came.


Stomp your boot on favored grounds
Thump your chest with hollow sounds.
Tell the world about your seed

Show the mustard,
Scream the Deed!


Be it rocky Scorched and bleached,
It’s always good ground that we see.



With no looking,
No acid tests
We all think we know our ground best.
Judge your partner,
Weigh your friends.
Let the scales of justice bend.



Point to the mirror without a look,
Tell them you’re in Mathew’s book.
We always see the land we tread
As land before the world was dead.
Always good ground beneath our feet
So say we all, just ask St. Pete?



And all on both sides now shall cry!
Who fell on good ground- me and I!
Who speaks more through fork and tongue?
Who more deserves their martyrdom?