A paranoid android looks on.
Marred by pins and needles, scarred
By the ins and the outs of your life.
I’m sewing myself together again,
Tear by tear, and thread by thread -
Until I have a patchwork, unbound by
Devotion!
Hell’s kitchen –
A bowl full of clockwork oranges,
And mechanical apples.
Cogs grinding in my dome,
A drawer full of silver spoons.
A drawl full of empty beer bottles and
Full moons. Crescented crescendos of
Light, with six octaves of clarity.
Cyborgs partake in lavish cybersex with
Swedish prostitutes,
It’s all invigorating masturbation to
The onlooker, or to the purveyor.
The slayer of dragons, he is aroused,
He cannot help himself -
Saint George, he is a pervert, of the
Worst kind.
The lines, of kings and queens by their
Thrones, holding hands, igniting candles.
The canvas is muddy,
Turner and Shakespeare look on in horror.
Chaucer turns in his grave
(But in his grace, he turns away).
The ancient reams of my country’s history -
Are falling apart.
The book is being eaten by mites;
The mites are gathering an army
It would seem. Insurmountable they are,
Deadly.
...
Now I am looking in, on a windowless chapel.
All boarded up,
And with my narcotic-stained arteries,
I trip out.
The congregation seek out the dusty man,
The one with the white beard.
The priest holds his hands aloft and raises
The people’s hopes.
Define hope - is it in some way parallel to debt?
Set’s servants and serpents are crawling
In the desert, my skin is crawling with them!
My kin is crawling with my skin, into shadow.
Shadow is falling over the mortal plains;
It is plain.
And I am pained - I am so pained.
The congregation are standing now,
They lift their stiffened faces.
In walks their god.
And they exclaim,
In their excitement –
“Speak of the Devil!”
And it's all like a punchline,
to a bad, bad joke.
I vomit quietly in a corner,
Repulsed at the sight of so
many grinning human skulls.
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....Its my first poem so go easy on me.
