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Ambiguous and in some sense immane.
On their lips is bitterness of the romaine.
Why do they ward themselves with purslane?
My pelt cannot resist the stain,
As though it were a bloating blain.
The one that does not let me gain
A key to match the lock that holds a chain
That chokes me down to restrain
As if it is as toxic as henbane,
Manifestation of a pure bane.
I’m repellent that attracts migraine.
If we were fleas then I would be fleabane.
If you appeal to cattle then I’ll appear as murrain.
It is that easy to explain.
Allegedly my esoteric reign
Is hard to take without disdain
In all those realms that form a plain
Where drought has never felt my rain.
And at an altitude of plane
Being a real tramontane, -
A bird that’ll never find its skein
Or in the caverns deep where I’ve once lain
Watched them deplete my ore vein
Striving for former might and main
I saw the land of withered grain,
I came across a peneplain.
It smashed my stand by giving me a cane -
To walk I had to be a whooping crane.
I thought it was to maintain
The knowledge that was not arcane.
But things they’ve built I call insane.
My railway’s weak to hold their train.
Their minor freight can bend my crane.
That human waste does not accept my main.
My strength is fizzing like champagne.
Your grubs are on my sugarcane.
Even direction of my wind is inhumane,
It can’t be shown by your vane.
Things are tendentious through my windowpane,
Way more surreal than mundane.
As I could scent the odorless methane.
And where’s no way I might see twain.
Detour a mountain and I’ll burst it open treading submontane.
I’m all alone, I struggle not to appertain
To any fraction as they’re all inane.
A crime for which myself I can’t arraign.
If I keep up I won’t be harnessed to your wain.
Which means that I’ll be separated by your ominous membrane.
There’s left one thing that can’t be slain…
It’s havoc – or acceptance of free rein.
Where temperance is on the wane
With amorality engrain
And desolation underlain.
Debauchery is their swain
While loathing is demimondaine.
To utter chaos those damned aspects are germane.
The only thought born in my brain
Can sprout rifts upon my lane.
So it’ll be like sprinting with an ankle sprain,
Or fishing with a ragged seine,
Or trying to catch your image in a mirror that has known no tain.
It’s something I’m contriving to contain.
Since stimuli fail to response, I can’t complain.
As my disguise is soaked with halothane -
The thing’s addictive as cocaine.
It won’t get through this wrap, this cellophane.
And after all I can’t be fain.
To do the things that desecrate my fane.
Just like a trickster who could never deign
To say: “You have been strangled by chicane
My art’s your trust and my legerdemain”.
With ease my path I preordain.
I’ll always be non-flammable propane.
My grip is that of polyurethane
To travel on against the grain…
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