There is no
expiation. There is no
interdiction. There are only crows
roosting in the crabapple tree The
apocalypse turns out to be a
cellular problem and the soul
is nothing but a bowl
of chemical soup.
Somebody give
Bernini a Martini...
Neatly trimmed lawns
curse
the god that pounds
grass up into the naked air.
Grass grows best in rotting flesh but
fertilizer will do.
The raucous birds cry and that is the only
benediction the atomic number of carbon
has to give.
God is pushing a lawnmower across the
pellucid sky. Sixteen year old girls have saddled
up the apocalyptic horses and are riding
among the pastel houses. They cannot see that the
gene pool has become an oblong swimming
pool filled with acid rain, dead
cats and chlorine.
My hands are shaking even as I type this...
Cathedrals of bones are floating above the
holy Ganges which is
desperately polluted. Words fall from my fingers
like shit from the asshole of the damned
but still,
I carry an elephant of awareness on my back.
Capitalist birds are gobbling sunlight
like they
own a thermonuclear furnace and happy
crows are roosting in the
twisted blades of the crabapple
tree.
On Sunlight
The black and
bottomless
sky wears a blue mask
and thermonuclear
eyeballs gleam
like suns. Gray
asphalt is
flipping photons
into deep wells of space
and time.
A maroon
pickup
truck stops at a red
light, right outside of
Ryan's bar and a gray car
gleams with dull surprise.
Sunlight
licks the masks
and
faces
in the crowd
and tiptoes from
sheet metal to the
stratosphere, unwinding
faster than time and slowly
warping
space.
