My writing monomer is Cycivilis Day, I am a satire writer, a psychology and architecture student, and criminally sane. I live in the Oxycodone Age of Man, where, in the foreseeable future, there will be a civil uprising because the exterminating chambers aren't running on green energy. I'm looking forward to my life, being twenty-three, being sucked into the new form of slavery, Slavery 2.0, where the humans own the machines and the machines own the humans, all of the beatings computerized for a sleeker, faster version of slavery, and of course imaginary shackles and worthless money, to cut down on overhead.
Part I: A Suicide of a Thousand Lonely Crows
We are swallowed by pills, they
That churn blood in our tongues
A laughing over the sounds of disembodiment sinks
A laughing over the sounds of sobs
This mechanical behemoth has clotted iron its entrails
veins now coughing cement
A laughing over the sounds of immortal war we cry
A laughing in our freak skin daughter shame me
A black tear drips slowly from my unscrewed eyelid
And I pluck it with my broken fingers,
To place in back inside.
A laughing that should not be here.
There is blood in my pocket it’s in-pooled now
I cannot remember how it got there
The skies fester in the black of crow bodies
The obliques are feted like dirty beds made of scar tissue
Stitches, as the roots of dead trees
Continued to rip into the graves of men
I did not ask for my eyes to be shattered they swore
no thank you
But they were.
My tear ducts are now in knots dry: my cracking face
And the mechanical pounding of my heart
Offers no requiem.
Nuclear shelters shovel the bodies in hungry their mouths
Consuming them with cracked lips
Shall we? Hide from the sunlight just one night longer
To wait for the passing of our last loved one?
I climb out of the catacomb of stone and skin and hair and bone
A laughing somewhere persists.
But I know no one could truly be happy
And the laughing, the laughing
is one of pain.
Goodbye Queen Mary. Goodbye Saint Christopher.
I say, and tongue down three more pills.
My wrists are injectionated and clots run through my veins.
My tongue has turned black laugh my freak skin writhes
And I surmise.
It was from the tar my heart stole from my lung
From the carcinogens my eyes stole from my blood
I can no longer live.
Not with their laughings.
Their laughing is that of mourning and death and sin and hate
Yes! Oh, claim us, suffering terrestrial gods
We are no use to ourselves.
I check my watch, and there is blood.
These crows. On every tree silhouette cackling over the obliques and granite surround me in peckish bleak
I walk to a house planted at the top of the cemetery mountain. And it is empty with life.
Who lived here
among past lives screeching in embalmment.
Still, the laughtering echoes somewhere run knots through me
It sounds golly with hate, leeched of its purity.
The laughing continues, distorted like the squawks of the ravens.
Of humans perched on dead trees, surrounded in cemetery.
It’s cruel, now, I understand pray hope think conclude
They are laughing at me, and my hope for life.
At the blood in my stomach that keeps me full.
The laughing persists. The laughing crawls and dances
With its fermented sweet scent of week old poppie skin
It seeps into my skin, slowly, I am going insane.
Not again. Not again, will I pray my life to Satan and God
To be consumed in dissonance.
Goodbye Faust, Goodbye mother.
Goodbye to that crescent planet that hangs on a noose
And nurtures their incessant laughter of hate.
The laughing. It continues. It is taken by the wind,
And washed down to a rotting shore, where
Machines live, and humans are programmed the clock splinters
The Television speaks tongues, conjuring dead specters
of once beauty
That little box of light is a cage it plays in my skull
And it has trapped a thousand goddesses
In eternity. The laughtering stops.
And whispers my name.
“Come, child of forsaken love,
Come, and laugh with us.
At the death of prophets and gods
Junkies and mothers.
Come. Care no longer,
And laugh at the beauty
Of the plague called life
Come, and cry no more.
Come, and laugh with us,
At our own deaths and infections,”
The laughtering grows louder,
And my tongue is part of it coveting the flesh of my kill
Goodbye, my Queens and Saints.
Goodbye black tears, and cringe ridden lips
For I laugh now.
Only laugh, and feel no pain.
No truth, no humanity, no holiness.
And no more tears.
And our tears dry. But not before our bodies rot.
We break open with blistering sobs
And now we know
The maggots were always beneath giggling with splendor
They were always beneath.
Squirming there, as if under the withdrawal
Of a needle
Or a needle.
Living, they ask for air.
And with tar, I gave them some
For life I can create and sustain
Is precious, no matter how vile.
Somewhere a computer weeps
They eat cavities in my neural jelly
And writhe like busted nightcrawlers in the electric bed
When thrown against the asphalt.
And the computer weeps.
As a balloon deflates slowly in
The Nicaraguan sun, my stomach is full of drugs.
Somewhere a computer weeps
As ovaries fry on wet cement
And no one cares.
A great machine is coming,
Its metal skin is bleeding inky newborn blood.
With a violent dying
It bleeds for you.
Our wooden spears and ships
Animal skin houses consecrated
War paint of ash and blood
We march towards the machine.
It’s ragged iron teeth desecrate.
Bone and flesh are sucked in.
A clawing death pervades the air
And it smells sweet like rotten
The soured bodies sink inward
Their collapsing chests breath with
The squirm of maggots and bacteria
And the Machine still is hungry forever thirsty for flesh pulp.
It eats tongues and eyes,
Ripping them from
The heads they were planted in.
And the blind mutes preach war again.
The Metal Machine curls up into a larval
Cocoon of rancid steel viscera.
Metamorphosis is coming
They must run. Now,
They must run.
The cocoon breaks open with the splitting
Grinding bosom of industrial lungs
Part II: The Moster
The wings marked with golden eyes
Forever dead, creep into every
Body like a leeching vacuum twisted spithing,
Of steel and blood and rot.
Running on broken wrists
They climb from the industrial flood
Pleading with The Almighty
But the Metal Monster rips their prayers from them
And Consumes them, and then them themselves as well.
Breathing lizard eyes and raven wings
Their crying makes it laugh I plead to nobody in manic fear
With Rainbows of insect flesh dripping
From its churning ulcered stomach.
And they know, now
As the machine wraps its teeth around
They had always been dead.
He woke up in a burning dawn
The sky was in the electric chair
Frying neurons fizzled, frying neurons popped
The cervix of Hell pushed out clouds
Of squid fetuses crying and laughing drips of sardonia.
Crying and laughing
We thought that life was a suicidal joke
Eat and pray were the people
That cursed upwards and prayed downwards
That bled black rainbows.
That seizure impulse to dream
So now they lie awake,
Closing their eyes just to see darkness
Twisted bodies writhe with happiness
Twisted bodies laugh with pain
Twisted bodies orgasm together
They are completely alone.
The dead black eyes of the monster
They watch eternal
Over the sky, they consume
Consume our peace, oh fatal Gods of lore
We say sarcastically, with teeth of rusted
Blackened tooth canals of sick
But the god consumes anyway.
Our bodies flash with LSD cold sweats and delusion,
As we enter the trip.
It was all blood and pain, with dystopic hysteria quilted as one,
As the celestial gods raped by metal machines
Cried for their purity, taken by wise men.
Our bones rattle in the firefly jars
Sleep is soon.
Dreams are what they dream for.
Sleep is what they pray for,
But the dead eyed monster pries open our eyes
With shame and guilt and pain.
There are, in my dream, angels
In the electric chair, smiling
There are, as well, gas chambers
With little plastic, rainbow
Children’s playground sets.
Black and white Jewish children
The five-foot slide, without joy.
Frowning as if with the banality of adulthood
Not of execution.
And I dream of the loneliest sea I’ve ever seen.
I sip burnt coffee,
inert to love, where is my television.
I sit. I masturbate to sickening
The cigarette snuffs.
In the lukewarm gas station coffee.
I laugh. My name is Edward
but everybody calls me The Freak.
Why’d I do it? Why’d I do it?
The kids gather their desks at
side of the room.
I drool blood.
The teacher is talking
But all I can hear is
the drone of voices. Freak. Faggot.
I’m drunk from the medication.
I take my medication.
I take my medication.
I take my mediation.
I’m normal. A kid breaks the violence.
“Eats rat cum!” with a silent shrill screech.
I don’t respond. I sit.
My eyes turn black
and pop out of my skull like rip zits.
I want a needle to hit my vein
and then bloom into a magenta orchid mangled
with its visceral lips. Laughing boy.
Sick boy. Faggot boy. Laughing boy.
Sick boy. Faggot boy. Laughing boy.
Sick boy. Faggot boy. Laughing boy.
Marijuana. Adderall. Alcohol.
Hallucinations I sit.
I want the television
to flicker and
die like God or a junky
brain cell. I want the sky
to collapse like a punctured
Freak child I sit.
What are they laughing at. Sick boy.
Laughing boy. Crying boy.
I saw a motorcycle accident in
The Dominican Republic.
The man’s splattered brains sizzled
like bacon on the burning black asphalt,
A pool of blood stretched from gutter to gutter.
my third eye with rusty razor blades
for lips. I was standing
in my bathroom
with an uncoiled copper colored coat hanger.
I could feel it kick
There were maggots’ underneath
my skin once. Suicide.
It was all right.
I saw a paralyzed squirrel
drag its soon to be dead body
across my lawn.
I felt sick,
but I was the one who crippled it.
I injected burnt coffee straight
into my vein with
a used hypodermic needle.
Our buildings will fall.
Freak child my skin.
Our religions will devour their own
Our skin child, lost.
He breathes through broken
lungs, just like I used to.
Our depraved numb hearts cry.
Part III: The Laugh
I am sitting on a dead black locust
Tree now. My fingers have shriveled
To bone, and my filthy body is gilded
In inky black quills.
The cemetery sits below me,
Though that is not where the dead bodies lay.
They, near the end, had taken to piling their loved
Ones in the pyres of the genocide
That had come. That would always come. That always came.
In the dead sky of but radioactive glow,
The flesh ash form storm clouds,
And rain a chalky grey over the stitched up
Skull of the land. It is the cold of winter
But without snow. Only the dull grey of bored death
All of the bodies had been toppled by the knees
By the grinding claws of the Great Machine.
Now, only the twisted skeletal structures
Of ghettoized buildings, billboards, trees,
And granite obliques stand.
They seem lonely, to me, and the other crows.
They told me, that that is why
they perch on dead trees. And billboards.
And tombstones, and houses in decay.
I had known I had always known that.
I had said goodbye
to my fathers and lovers and heroes and hated
and now they have said goodbye
to this broken land,
to the skies of burning bodies
to the necrotic flesh of soured water.
While I still remain.
No longer crying.
No longer in pain.
No longer surrounded.
And no longer alone.
Sitting on the branch of this invasive
Tree, this black locust tree.
This tree which spreads from land to land
Killing off native species, reproducing
And choking out everything else
Only to be gnarled and die.
This tree which has taken over the hills
And forests and yards and cemeteries.
Just like That Great Machine.
Just like that Great Genocide
Just like their deaths
Just like our lives
As silhouettes of ravens
Perched in plagues
Upon every poorhouse, every granite headpiece,
And every dead tree.
Calling out to the surrounded and alone
With our laughter. Of cruelty.
Golly with hate,
Leeched of its purity.
Calling out to those in pain
To join us in our murder,
Perched over the graveyard,
Part IV: The Machine