Friday, April 19, 2013



Fireflies like terrorist acts against the stars.
Truth on the oyster of the tongue spun
like a grain of sand, an irritant fact
into the nacreous lustre of lies. Those are pearls
that were his eyes, the politicians sink so low
they’re flatworms in platform shoes.
Not a good idea to wipe your ass
with your own ideals in public. It
shocks the mob to realize their magi are maggots.
When the mob loses face, heads roll.
The latent rage of a thousand real and imagined ills
swarm out of the pinatas of your May Day festivals
like the nemetic scourge of God whipping the eyes
of the media into a frenzy of visionary vengeance.

Paranoia becomes a civic duty and Big Brother
no more than someone you know in the Mafia
doesn’t give a damn whether you’re related to him or not.
Maternal piety suckles at the poppy’s breast
and we bleed like the dreams of sleepwalkers
on the prophylactic precipice of the razor’s edge.

Down below in the middens of the rejected
the skulls of children heaped like shepherd moons
that didn’t make the cut of random luck
and ideological purity run amok with inhumanity
like secret police with unlimited budgets
to protect the state by interrogating the genomes
of their citizenry for any mutant signs of evolution.

The most bitter and appalled among us profess optimism
like roses in the sunset of a mushroom cloud
as lethal as the Angel of Death when it rains
and amateur survivalists are complaining of stomach pains.

Science is taught to shut its mouth by a thug
that knows what’s good for it is also good
for the Golden Goose that lays the cosmic eggs
in the Eleusinian Mysteries of dialectical materialism.
Covert telescopes replace the glass eyes
of enlightened Cyclops with black ops that move
like Ninjas in the night, the hashashim of the Old Man
of the Mountain, the shining city on a hill,
to eliminate any doubt of the positive outcome
of imperial altruism bearing the white man’s burden
like Coca Cola, ho, ho, ho, come like Santa Claus to Belize,
or Shell to the arctic like the ark of an oil platform
leaking like the shepherds of the black camel
in the white deserts in the land of the midnight sun.

Five billion years of astronomical catastrophes creatively
eliminating species that weren’t related directly to us
and the acclamation of human consciousness as the only
mode of intelligence to make it in the long run
like the Boston marathon through a gauntlet
of pressure cookers that can’t stand up on their own two legs
without cooking nails in the practical crackhouses of hardware stores
prosthetically intent on martyring human femurs
on a pyre of crutches you can’t throw away like a miracle cure
at the top of the cathedral stairs you climbed on your bleeding knees
to walk on air like a prayer to the angels of mercy
listening like drones and satellites high overhead
to the screams of the uncircumspect innocent at the finish line.

Desecration, as if we were angry with our gods
like the Mayans who burnt their temples one day
in desperation for a famine the seven fat kine
the untempered greed of the bankers caused
at the end of civilization that knows more about us
than we do it, with honey for some and locusts for others
in a foreclosed wilderness with radio-controlled wolves,
and nano-sized mosquitoes like puncture wounds
at the beginning of the data chain that leads
like breadcrumbs on the road of knowledge suspiciously
like the photo-shopped streets of London back to us
like a hallucinogenic reality show in highspeed HD.

Decry something sacred, something unanalytically
vulnerable like a misplaced faith in the immunity
of our genetically modified mothers to protect us
from diseases like an insurance policy that didn’t cover us
or the honey bees on the pestilential nicotinoids
that cling like smallpox to the blankets we gave the natives
to keep warm like a guest with a fever in the charnel house of life.
What sweetness mined like pollen from a corpse flower
is ever going to taste like viscous sunshine to a corporate hive
whose growing pains are always parasitical genocide
of one kind or another? Caterpillars against butterflies.

Pervs, perps, terrorists, ghouls and demented one percenters
of the unbikerly kind, the mob won’t die benignly like road kill.
Once the genuflective holiness of the gilded shepherd’s crook
is seen by the sheep who bleated for rescue to be what it is,
a cattle prod in an abattoir of grain-fed coup d’etats,
you’ll be eating the meat of your children boiled
in their mother’s milk, when the mob’s preference
for fair-mindedness is murderously offended like a snakepit
that was minding its own business like Babylon at a ball game
when your bomb went off like a prelude of the apocalypse
you so furtively desire like a plague rat of self-hatred
seeking notoriety in the shadows of things to come
that go boom, boom, boom, like something infernally gargantuan
protecting her young like the infuriated mother of mayhem.


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