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.
What?
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.
