Wasteland of bodies strewn & writhing
upon shag-carpeted plains
of shattered & splattered Vice-
beer, sweat, semen, blood & tears, unassuaged fears
misread in the screaming head as blurred words
once so clear, now absurd.
Ashtrays are overrun with lipstick-kissed remnants
of cigarettes & roaches,
butts once aflame with the frenzied zeal
of surrogate Motherhood/Fatherhood,
now burnt clean down to each grubby stub.
The Godfather of Reason stands idly by,
bemusing in all of this-
although his seed is no longer in season,
given way to Malcontent-
his Heaven-sent so Hell-bent on eluding the grasp
as the mundane senses taunt & mock
stopping at the drop of anything, everything & nothing all at once.
Hope lounges lackadaisically upon the divan,
dreaming of a world where everything is as it seems.
A world where everyone's drug of choice is the Rolls Royce
of True Freedom's voice,
which always inquires of each its own:
Why seek to atone merely through more of the same sin Thou hast known?
Intuition hovers above, waxing & waning in ghastly, glassy whisper:
Be ever Maternal to that which lies Internal.
For it is Intuition which sings most clearly in Morse code pitch & meter,
of the body's impending inferno,
and the Mind's perpetual betrayal,
wrought of that harrowing narrowing to get straight,
in the name of the safeguarding of all Pandoraean floodgates.
A hot eclipse of desperation descends like a depraved moon
in slicing, adept, devious crescent,
burning out the eyes of the all-too-eagerly effervescent-
those who mock with subtle yet smug, squinty grin,
others not so akin to more than Despair & Chagrin,
whose hearts are ever on gross display-
ever shifting, disassembling in kaleidoscopic disarray-
the role of Scapegoat they must master to play.
Raw nakedness dances with maladroit front upon the sleeves of these.
And what is the reward for such stoic exposure
to be granted these out-of-their-elements devotees?
Perhaps, they console themselves, it lies within the unacknowledged protection
which such ontological congruency & lucidity of clairvoyance can offer-
Their societally-condemned weaknesses mercifully revealing their greatest strengths.
For those of the "sui generis" breed read the writing on the ceiling
like the thunder reads the storm ever nigh,
with such sure, scientific measures of displeasure-
as yet another kind of that "knowledge best forgotten" stacks up
like fool's treasure.
A young girl slowly stirs herself into noncommittant motion,
rambling about in fumbling, mumbling, quizzical gait towards the bathroom door-
as if this affectation of "holding it all in",
was not twin brother to her sin.
She claps her hand to her head, which glows red, still unfed.
In feigned, strained sing-songy cadence she speaks her thoughts aloud:
"Now what is it I'm looooking foooooooor?"
as if anyone but she has the Answer.
She lights up a Salem menthol, breathing hungrily in again,
this living-life-for-death-supporting poison with the classic Cheshire grin,
of one who only knows how to lose to win.
The young girl now throws herself with willful abandon
into the ever-open yet rigid arms of the Arabesque chair,
peering out over the others now who lie so toilsomely inert,
as they are heavy with the blasphemous irreverence of such casual prayer-
spawned by a Despair which has also grown lukewarm-
another misplacement of care.
The young girl now sighs a sigh of labored indifference.
convincing herself that she is "out of her element"-
even here, where it is most assured that noone cares whom or what
one is trying to be or not to be.
She rises up from her abstract yet very well-delineated position in space-time,
a raging tiger in her own Rorshach blot,
leaving the others to find their own way back to the sanctified insanity
of the so-called "real world",
as one by one, they will lose Truth again within the dazzling psychonography
of star-spangled banners yet waving against the grimly prim backdrop
of ostentatiously understated suburban landscapes.
She walks on, the flags lining this particular North American street
unfurling & contracting like the eloquent yet livid tongue of God,
as the Sons & Daughters of the so-called "bourgeoisie"
go on regaling their tall tales of worldy conquest,
always seeming to fall so short of the mark of their proclaimed Cause.
For this is that green-backed kind of venom for the masses,
so bumptiously hissed in keeping with the lower art of Projection-
so seemingly well-conditioned within most of their "high-class",
as they come to hate themselves for sins which never were sins to begin with-
namely, the natural need & birthright for & of freedom from such subversive conformity-
which is then projected onto those which they see not so finely-dressed-
nor as nearly stressed, repressed & underly confessed.
Yet these mocked & sneered at by most of society,
are most secretly envied & idolized for their redeeming insight
into how to really bleed, gathering at the feet of the Ultimate
like the soporific, intoxicating sweetness of agape Love given & returned
with unsurpassed, unfettered Joy.
For this destitute life has bestowed upon those of this so-called "lower" class,
an endless wealth of that true, deep & abiding enrichment
which is wrought only by what can be gotten out of that which has been denied.
The writing may be "on the ceiling" & not "on the chalkboard" for some,
but how it has schooled so many so well, nevertheless,
in the priceless wisdom that it is always better to be declared eternally indigent
for voluntary Truth, than to become filthy rich from the pandering & pushing of Lies.
And we all would be wise to judge not so hastily or haughtily-
take a deep look around you:
Heroes come in many 'a guise.
