 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. A laughing. 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. Goodbye. 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 had lived 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. Goodbye. 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 Tooth canals. 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. Growing 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 their necks, 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. We thought 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 Was denied. So now they lie awake, Closing their eyes just to see darkness And pain. Twisted bodies writhe with happiness Twisted bodies laugh with pain Twisted bodies orgasm together But know, 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. Run. 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, We said. 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 slide down 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 pornographic love. 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 the opposite side of the room. I drool blood. The teacher is talking But all I can hear is the drone of voices. Freak. Faggot. Sick. I’m drunk from the medication. I take my medication. I’m happy. I take my medication. I’m sane. 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. Synthetic chemicals. 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 lung. 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. I felt Nothing. Siddhartha kisses 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 and squirm. 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 flesh. 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 Fills me. 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, Every billboard, 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, And laugh. Part IV: The Machine |
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