Revolution

 

Apocalyptic Shroud

 

Antiseptic wipes the wound

but not the zit with the interminably

irrepressible pus and his pandemic

poison-bearers. Tank up and bear down,

inject with bile and boils and the ripped,

torn, dead bit picked out of society

like Prometheus’ liver, pawned and

tattered like a daily duty, as if a deity’s

hand had the final say and didn’t really

care much for the creation side of things.

 

He builds his house out of ready-lit matchsticks,

peels back the ashen hatch to reveal

a tinderbox of strays society still isn’t

ready for. They become the all-round

compost

 

that smokes and grows in the wrong places,

in the wrong direction; they pierce like poison-

dipped darts, the flawless landscape which

turns sick and brown to putrid rotting smut

shades, gnawing down and round in

circumventing worm spirals, through volcanic

plate and urn, through generation and age

and amoebic reproduction, through sound

and light signals, through instinctual birth

and destruction. Down, down, porcelain

banjos. Bang! Survival, but no evolution

sitting at their table.

This entry was posted in Your Voice. Bookmark the permalink.