I WANT DARK ENERGY
I want dark energy.
I want release.
I want riot.
I want wishing wells
too surfeited with the prayers of the undeserving
to haemorrhage like watersheds
thrown from the balcony of the theatre
like plastic hysterectomies onto the anointed heads
of my immaculate conceptions
of blue madonnas in the audience.
I want tantrum.
I want chaos.
I want nemesis.
I want pandemonium.
I want a black mass
where the wafer of blood and flesh
isn’t a cookie on my tongue
that wasn’t burnt in the oven
but celebrates my suffering
in a holy communion of razor blades.
I want freaks with distractive affinities for the implausible
to rat their hard drives out to the police
like copycat serial killers
like a motherboard at a seance
channeling the voices of virtual reality
into a living host.
I want the anti-muse of fire
to stuff my mouth with the ashes of urns
that weren’t inspired by their own negativity
to let the medium eat the message of the people
like a government dedicated to its own preservation.
I want to spit out toxic lyrics
like a cobra in disgust
at what it’s expected to swallow
like the sound-bite of a happier fatter afterlife.
I want heretical stigmata
to make the sign of the cross
like the blade of a Swiss army knife
to suck the poison out
and spit it back into the eyes of the Taliban.
I want foreign advisors
to parachute into my third world emotional life
like a snake pit they’re training to bite other people.
I want enlightened voodoo dolls
with boundless sex appeal
to reverse the curse of the blessing
that lied to me about who it was from.
Empty the slums the jails the ghettoes
the asylums the low rent housing projects.
Undo the first and last crescents of the moon like handcuffs
and free the beautiful lunatics
from their straitjackets and meds
to do post-doctoral research
into the genius of the stone-age tribes of Borneo
who knew how to shrink heads long before Freud
went into a trance and started playing witchdoctor
to a cauldron of biochemicals that can’t dance
like sugar plum fairies.
These are not the nabobs of madness.
The wrong miscreants have been committed
into the care of worse deviants.
Justice is an economic condition
that depends upon the law of supply and demand.
Build a prison.
And they’ll come
because nature abhors a vacuum
more than a black hole of economic isolation
with the singularity of a contagious victim
trying to tunnel through the bottom
like a drug cartel into the black market of another universe.
I want to reverse the order of things
like a digital hourglass
whose moment has come at last
to stand the pyramids on their heads
like the reflections of moonboats
capsized in a sea of sand
whose cargo sinks to the bottom
like the trickle down economics of an afterlife
that’s leaking down the leg of a drunk
in an executive urinal
dreaming of sweeter intoxications to come.
If what they tell me is true
and the tree of life is rooted in heaven
then it’s time we all started raining up
and shining from below
as if we were walking on stars
instead of rooting like thermophilic bacteria
seven kilometres down in a diamond mine
ready to regenerate life on earth by default
after an astronomical catastrophe
or being harvested
by corporate blue whales like krill.
Road kill like refugees
all along the panicked highways to hell.
I want an antidote
to the spiritual syphilis
that afflicts the human imagination with false hope
like snakeoil salesmen
milking the fang for a sure cure
to the other one that kills you
by convincing you to humbly bend over
and faithfully take it up the ass
like a syringe full of immunity to asps.
Disgorge the black honey
in the hives of the killer bees
and spread oilslicks like molasses
on their daily bread and butter
on the waters of their life
on the air they breathe.
For all the folksy spin
of their hand-painted commercials
consider how difficult it must be for them
to renew their virginity like a brand name
in the same public facility everyone else uses
without getting caught
fouling the earth like a toilet in an executive bathroom.
Monostomes that shit out of the same mouth they eat with.
Bring on the bitter the ugly the outrageous.
Bring on the doomsayers
who wish upon the first star they see at night
to be vindicated like a Mayan air raid siren
for howling like a banshee at the prophetic window
of another astronomical catastrophe.
Bring on the mythic inflations
of the apocalyptically hysterical.
Bring on the species we raised
like an assassin in our own house
to replace us with the same relentless indifference
that we showed to those that no longer exist.
Bring on the nightmares of feudal despair.
Bring on the extortionist thugs
of privatized health care
withholding the drugs
of a cancer patient for ransom
like dealers hooking junkies up to a higher price
knowing they’ve just got to have it or else.
Bring on the media pundits come
like scar tissue and rational bandages
with antiseptics on the tip of their tongues
to doctor the spin on the wounded psyche
of a disease they’re carrying
like the story of themselves.
Bring on the medicated luxury
of being able to feel something
with varying points of view
where tolerance too often
is just another norm of indifference
in the comfort of your living room
the one message the one headline
the news carries every night
like an after dinner mint
when one half of our global brain
watches the other half slaughtered or starved to death
raped enslaved kidnapped and decapitated
or swept like collateral damage under the monuments
to the lies we like to tell like modern history
about why so many had to die
so we could feel as special
as an NBC documentary on a national holiday.
The one mantra that’s being subliminally repeated
even if you go off to bed
disgusted at the obscenity
of any average day on earth
and take a soporific
to just tune out
and get a good night’s sleep
and wake up as refreshed as a web page
is keep things the way they are
because isn’t it good to live
in the shadow of the
biggest brother on the block
and look at the world as if you were exempt
when all was said and done to everyone else but you?
Most people aren’t looking for freedom anymore.
They’re looking for exemption.
And if you ever do see someone these days
out in the open as if the sixties weren’t over
nine times out of ten
unhinged by their perceptions
they’re looking for a good strong door
that keeps everything out and nothing in.
Bring on Armageddon.
Bring on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Bring on Adajal the red-haired one-eyed Liar.
Loose the Goog and the Magoog from behind their iron wall.
Let the shepherds of the black camel
build tall buildings in the desert.
Let no birds sing in the eucalyptus trees of Israel.
Let the last man on earth
grovel in the dust at his sister’s feet.
Let the extreme chaos of conditioned consciousness
load their hadron colliders with anti-matter
and have it out like gunslingers
in the streets of Laredo
as if an expanding universe
weren’t big enough for the two of them.
Here comes Alaric in the year 410 anno domino
with his Visigoths to the pantry of Rome.
Here comes Hulagu and his Mongols
and the black plague of 1348 anno domino
and the danse macabre of the flagellant fanatics
who tar and feather the night like a black swan
they set afire to keep the ugly ducklings in line.
Here comes the gamma radiation
like a starburst flavour in a wad of gum.
Bring on nuclear winter to savage the flowers
the grass the trees like a black sheep of seasons
that crept in among the flocks
like the shepherd of wolves
in the Duc d’Berry’s Book of Hours.
Let the earth put its big toe
on the last crescent of the moon
and pull it like the trigger of a double-barrelled shotgun
it’s got stuck like a mantra in its mouth
like the red hot ball of a koan of doubt
that’s been eating it from the inside out
and is about to break through
to other side of enlightenment
with the meteoritic impact of the Late Cretaceous
upon the chances of new mutant life forms
adapting to the desecration of the womb
that miscarried them into life
without a myth of origin
to explain their devolution from us
who took up all the oxygen in the room.
I want a more merciful chaos
than the relentless drone
of this blood-sucking order of doom
that plants its cosmic egg upon your forehead
and eats the butterfly out of the caterpillar
before it’s had a chance to bloom.
I want leaderless spaces
where everyone can move freely
wherever they want
with no back or front to the line
when everyone’s on a wavelength of their own
multiverse by multiverse
No more derisible politicians
with the integrity of fire hydrants
running for election
that any dog with money can piss on
in a house that’s already burnt to the ground.
You let me have a casino here
I’ll let you do cancer research over there.
I want to announce last call to all awareness
if the only thing we’ve figured out to do with it
is abuse it by arguing over whether
this obscenity of human lovelessness
is petty or profound
when the heart doesn’t bleed out
it haemorrhages before the last act of atrocity
has been played out in the belly of the beast.
The number of the beast
is the number of a man.
Could have been Decius.
Could have been Nero.
I want an infinite number of zeroes
behind my name.
What’s so scary about 666
in a triple X society five times as bad
and twenty-two times as mad
than Caligula making his horse a senator?
Let Rome burn.
Is Paris burning?
Has Beijing caught fire yet
like a red book in a cultural revolution?
I want dark skies in the eyes of my skull.
I want everything to go missing.
I want to fulfill my creative potential
like an unlit candle at a Zen funeral
that expresses everything I don’t know
about poetry and life
like an eloquent ignorance
that’s sensitive to light.
In a world as radioactively irrational as this
I want to be wrong for all the right reasons.
I want to play musical chairs with the seasons
and be the one that’s left out.
I want a medium with no message
it can identify with like the stem cell of a word.
I want to fall toward paradise
from such a long way up
I’m sure to burn out in the upper atmosphere
like a snowflake on a furnace
long before I ever get there.
Let someone unworthier than I am
take my place.
I want the cool background bliss
of my liberation
to put the cosmic hiss of my creation out
like a flickering candle
with a snake’s tongue
witching the air for the direction of prayer
between my godly forefinger
and my prehensile opposable thumb.