Monday, October 4, 2010

With/Without Our God

The past feeds on itself,
ink burned pixels
cutting around fleshy steel
and we act unscathed
with these magenta wounds
that shift and bleed
like some doctor strange
psychedelic fantasy,

watching the eye of agamotto
trapezing, tumbling
legs over head
falling through this arching
nowhere, dizzy with

rain nodding irreverently,
kneeling toward the sky
and praying to find peace
on the ground,
the earthy brown-green
moist crushed ground,

where we walk underneath
the treading feet of
gods long pretend-forgotten,
their wishes too heavy to
one scowl and the mountains burn
purple-blue, mouth preaching
stern, love-

Adjacent to heaven
we plant our flag
of atheists open-minded
and fleeing the truth,
quoting the blackness of space
through the uninspired beginning,
Our god demanding the sacrifice
of art, love, poetry,
we gladly give away
trading weight for peace
longing for forgiveness,

Place your hand on my forehead,
fever burns with memories
collective memories
laid to waste, blistered by fiber-optic cables
and golden finches,
fed to death with designer cheese
and television sets,

make room for your coffin,
pretentious in death and life,
tear down the walls of belief
for an indulgently clean conscious,
because you found the loop-holes
left all over this text book,
written in the heady ink of

I hear it raining and
Oh, I know the outcome,
we can be obsessed with magic together,
I'll access the wikipedia to find out how,
then grovel at its inane alter,
one click away and 30 keys,
type faster to measure
the size of your reproduction,
on your miniature screen avatar fantasy,

I hear facebook calling,
it's interactive and concrete,
Although it's not free-
and juggle your response,
google already knows what its going to be,
so it has some suggestions for you, me, us,

So choose 1,2,3,4,5,6,7
what your god asks, demands
without demanding,
you'll gladly go to war for free,
as would I,
by design, all the variables met,
the clever turn,
the acceptance of nothing,
the entrance to the machine
the diffuse eyes and ears and wand,
poking at our bodies,
feeding tubes and remote controls,
the inbred tv guide
grasping our last sexual urge,
browsing the instant queue,
and determining our dreams.

No comments:

Post a Comment