The hysteric women, for-seeing the darkness through the ice storm that swept across the western plains in mid-January, cry out in warning and run into on-coming traffic. Voiceless faces tighten around the jaw line at the sight of the sunset collision with the earth. I sat and then paced, and thought and sat and paced again under the whirling of the ceiling fan who whispers that I’m no good for this task, this undertaking of the undertaker. Coffin size notwithstanding, I open up that sealed casket door and step through the light misting rain and find myself with a desire to soak into the earth, to melt inside of the underworld furnaces that are just being lit again for a season of treating the mystics.
Deny the dream of death, the ghost repeats herself in the mirror, standing naked with the bloodstained faced mannequins who, draped in filthy finery, whisper that chaos is riding the eastern wind back towards home. I became the nightingale, the pirated profit of the caged birds singing the blues through the bars of a system that creates only wincing dead, hallucinations of moaning bodies as they drift through days of sleepwalking.
The vampires awoke from centuries of slumber to return to their thrones of fated serpents’ heads which hold our puppet strings while they reload the cyborg systems. We came from dust and yet there seems to be a transformation into cogs and wheels, mainframes lifted up as the idols of an age which dies with its robot arms crossed on its chest.