Advice To Spaceman

So they say,
there is not a thing worse than a little spilled paint,
there is nothing worse than a few sharp memories of pain,
come to me,
dear fallow visitors from the outer space,
and let us partake in the creation myth that "man came from ape",
a thousand years ago he walked with a limp,
with a scratch,
his table-top brow meant somehow to house families of fleas,

now he moves on land-locked knees
still hunting snatch but
detached from those meandering avenues
in the trees,

Great Pyramid,
tell us your Secret,
allowed to keep it for so long despite wandering wicked deacons who
frequent your WELCOME mat in zebra skins and fur seal hats
distributing leaflets about the posthumous deaths
of the sons of Giza,

we fall at the porcelain sandals of saints atop statues with
inscriptions of virtue but beg daddy to withhold the belt
waiting to be dealt against our pale pelts when we sneak in
past curfew
without even so much as a thank you,

if you're here on vacation,
dead little space man,
my advice to you from a heart long overdue for review,
is to get back into your metallic hovering transportation,
reverse the gravitation (or whatever it is you do),
set your navigation for the farthest constellation,

and find recreation elsewhere.

TA