Poem: Filler 2

I attended the Funk Brothers perfomance at the Brit Festival, and therefore could not finish the story in time for this week's segement, and so instead I give another poem to entertain and delight you. Withouth further ado:

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My bed and girlfriend are of the same ambrosial scent

I believe it began on the Atlantic coast
In a fight over bread
Or some other monetary nonsense.
Soon the rocks of power and hate were thrown
That flew thrice over the world
To knock a horse and rider off the senses
And into some other kind of shades
Known to this world as simplicity and falsehood.
(Although we are most likely wrong.)
I caught one jumping a hole to my hand
As it passed through my windows
And straight through my living quarters
Needless to say, I began to bleed from the perfect circle
Cut by the hardly gem.
The essence trickled down a scarlet trail
Like that of a Christ on his wedding day
Where he hung in his infinite marriage to God.
(The abusive old man.)