The Age of Machines

This is my reaction,

formally known for its brutally profane nature

of once bloodstained walls,

now white washed and shiny,

the color being gone,

thus the deed, unimportant.


The prostitution rites,

arched and heaving,

over the graves of the elite,

kept secret,

the last sigh of the hanged man

on the hill

that the church strung up

as a publicity stunt,

bringing in some extra cash

for the new baptismal pulpit.


I was asylumed-

twitching prophecy

that became internalized by the collective conscious,

as blasphemy and rhetoric.


The doctors come in,

white trench coats of the republic,

gave way to the revolution

over the rainbow and back again,

same shit over and over.

I could not see

through the labyrinth of the fire queen

and the white rabbit.

Beauty so horrifically defined

as to render one blind and deaf

to the dying of mankind,

and the age of the machine and madness.


I reached out,

one shaking hand,

from the black curtain,

and found cold steel

pressed against my palm-

exchanging blood for plasma

and volcanoes burning.


We ate dirt and pills

fed to us as caviar and saturated fats,

and we had the fucking gall

to believe them

without a sound of screaming.


Supernatural became a myth.


I was told to follow behind

the stations of the cross,

a bloody tantric eulogy.

You are trying my patience.

The harlequin shaman

tries to wake up, open you up,

and ends up in a morgue

in Brooklyn,

where she was born,

back to dust

to regain, what,

honor? glory? Money?

Can I step into your cell

without purging

your caffine stressed,

cocaine repressed,

alcohol obsessed,

poetic reverence.


No, all I see

is bourbon sloshed shadows.

If you don’t know where you are,

what the fuck am I supposed to do about it.

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