February 7, 2008

 

The Prophet is a Methadone Junky

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—

It’s so elegant

So intelligent

T.S. Eliot

And as the earth’s blue light burns out like a television switched off,

we each drown in our own meanings.

We suffocate on thoughts that we have not yet sprayed

on the sides of buildings in hot pink ink,

images of bodies we have not yet sculpted

out of trash and bronze and erected

in the middle of the square in celebration.

 

Our loves burn inside us like scrubbing acid

each word unspoken drips into our lungs

like candle wax and we cough, cough, cough.

We are dying, it is true.

 

See Nelson there curled up in a rage,

angry to be dying of the common cold

when the glamorous die of vanity or AIDS.

           

 Annie has things in her mouth she doesn’t want to lose,

the congress of the crow in perfect harmony with the world.

She feels like a wheel that could spin forever,

and does, incidentally, as the blue light disappears.

All is hurled into space.

           

Baby Jimmy resents his name. That is his last thought.

           

Viktor drifts off to Etta James and wonders if he’s a fag.

He drags a cigarette as the world blows up.

           

Caroline and Todd are in true love.

You can tell because they’ve been married

four years and never argue. At this particular moment

she is nestled in his armpit.

He is thinking the walls are too white.

           

It is time only because we have lost the will

to make it and somebody stepped on the switch

that lies buried underneath the lace and grunge of San Jose,

embedded in the clean sidewalks of Singapore,

inside the whirling Bermuda Triangle.

Flowers still grow out of bricks,

The city still eats a child a day and

poisons its own wells with a hatred so dense

that it forms thick disks

that sail around cosmic blackness for millions of years,

hitting lives,

decimating them.

 

The death is not the terror,

zero is round and friendly,

but it’s the fractions that have nails.

           

Why, the porn is getting better

as the people are getting scareder

and the chicks are getting faker

and the rates are getting cheaper!

Frank cries into his come.

           

Holly wants to eat that plum but the juices are too sticky

it might ruin her nice dress

she doesn’t eat it in the end.

           

Jenna wants to know whether this kid will ever stop crying

so she can breathe a little, too.

 

Ben wishes he weren’t an average asparagus.

           

While the world goes to shit

Flor is asleep and dreaming of soft whitish birds

with red eyes and transparent fluff

that show their inner workings

like little clocks of flesh and ivory bones.

They flock together angrily, puncture

her organs with their yellow beaks.

She dies in real life.

           

We bare our fangs to every structure we see,

like skeletons on the street, crumpled and broken.

We bite our thumbs to the bibles of the herds

as bearded men cry streams of blood

that drop to the ground and blossom into thorns

for the ground is too dusty with shale

and talc sand for thirsty petals.

We throw off our shoes into the ocean

and shoe silt gathers to block off great rivers

that swallow up the levees

where small children bask

in only a string and a prayer.

We roll around on the ground in orgiastic apathy

at our own amazing coolness

in  the face of utter blank.

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1 Comment

  1. i love this.
    but do you think this already happened or will happen in the future?


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