the wounds of the underground

Can I take you down to the trials of Corinth and Cancer?
Where the moon rests when she is tired,
and we,
the forgotten ones,
let our tears sink into the earth
with the hope that we can burst
through the mud and the rain,
a phoenix ablaze from its coffin,
a green stem pushed up through the ground,
as she gives a sigh of relief.

I stained the curtains in my room
with the blood of the ageless euphorics.
The pandemics of apathy and violence
raged through the crowds,
trampling each other at the stock market’s
bell toll and hoping to make it home for dinner,
with their suits still flapping in the breeze,
and their wives cooking lean cuisines
to help with the obesity problems of America.

Where are our soiled tongues
that lash out at even infants
who despair that the world is ending
and there is not a fucking thing we can do
but watch it burn.
Strike a match to your finger
and remember the wounds of the underground,
the artist’s curse to see the world
as a spinning wheel carousel that
wants to roll away from the circus freaks
and the lovers that make out in its arms.

I hang by a needlepoint,
a crucifix adorned to carry the weight
of our children's supposed sin?
There must be more than the fake fortuneteller’s voice,
over the radio,
thick and raspy with delight
that you don’t have a clue
you are giving up silver for popcorn kernels.

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