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.