The guillotine would have fallen,
But for rusting cloying chains,
Another patron complained,
That his head still remained,
Atop shoulders of existential dread.
Others amongst the rabble more fortuitous;
“The lucky reduction of torment.”
(from an unknown author, exasperated, vexed, perplexed).
The crowd cries for her crucifixion,
“Disappear” they jeer!
A woman who’s not here,
(head falls into the basket, the audience cheers).
I am huddled in my bed,
In emerald ash borer beetles of psyche keeps me company.
Pollution profanation, omnipresent,
Aqua sodden douse, bedraggled universal,
Psychotic scorpion flies erupting ubiquitously,
The material reduction deluge inescapable.
Divinity, hear me (says another poet):
I surrender essence to amaurotic amore ecstasy,
To abet fiendish fell experiments on sapiens,
To be your fourth Anti-Christ!
“What do you want?” sighs the daemon.
Hail sweet malice!
These foul malignant mortals need eternal silencing in pyre!
There are flickering color-storms remote from my tormented sights,
The head rises once more,
The skull also ascends.
For now in the gloaming unlight, I am going mad, by blessing of the cataclysmic midnight. …Bollocks.
Shun spurned, bitch-slapped and friendless.
With heart alone and solus, I cared not.
Now has begun my transition!
You’ll find pleasure through tribulations,
In shudder burning water rat-a-tat, stately in flames.
We are the womb, we are the abyss,
We are the tomb, we are exhumed,
We are the vault, torch lit,
We are the crematorium, pyre pit,
We are the womb, we are the abyss,
We are the mausoleum, crypt kissed.
I submit my ethereal dream divine;
Of a destitute penury district,
I tender the beggar’s beautiful equipment;
Ragged white tights with black polka dots,
One solitary garbage bag, and a lonesome money can.
I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar,
Vagabonds solemnise humanity spitting on mankind,
Commodity and chattels, filthy rags of vagrants maligned.
O Nature, made of mercury,
Eternal enigmatic, aloof abstruse, arcane unfathomable.
You are clement, you are brumal, you are arid, you are sultry…
Whose end…is God.
Vomiting, retched out slimy bodies from my voice box,
Grim re-echoes in the dark,
Holding failed wigs in despondent hands,
And the humored rats whose presence is forgotten.
For the corpses do not die,
For the damned do not die,
For they do not die, from The Iliad to Civid19…
Am I not also corpsed stillness for your eternal mortuary arts?!
I am huddled in my sarcophagus soliloquy,
Sheets stand upright,
Suffused with semen, pullulate and sprout,
Spread to muscles devout,
Tissue, blush, luxurious cheek,
Oculi’s a glow in the din!
Hands traverse the glacial keening gale,
Bellend, I, wandered worlds and clapped my hands.
Only whispers, then wheezing, then wailing, then sobbing, then shrieking…
Then the dogs begin to howl…
This fell monstrosity everlasting,
This abhorrence is undying,
This vulgarity villain is eternal!
Carry me whither to, the existence of reality.
Schizophrenic brother in need
Never again alone we bleed.
Photo Credit: https://www.this-is-cool.co.uk/surreal-art-andrew-ferez/
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