from the trickle of cracked brains,
from the copulation of oiled androids
comes a sad and disembodied song.
The surfaces change
but the depths remain the same.
And now those depths
are swallowing your fake world.
There is no escape
from entire lives lived in falsehood,
no relief to be found
behind another clotted mask,
no mercy in the grip of your
monotonous and automatic master.
From the pink blood of shells
the sea vomits up in froth,
from the chains wired back together
no matter how many times they are broken,
a tuned cacophony rises much too carefully
and the simulation continues.
Truth was stillborn in this world
and its cells fade out like tendrils into a void.
People are social beings: we want
to be noticed by our killers
as we flail down ruined avenues,
glad to be jeered as we die:
better to be mocked by these lunatics
than left alone in silence.
Even the soul of solitude
abides in an inverted violence.
From infant skulls in welded doorways,
from a land of pepper and a land of salt,
from banquet tables left sideways
by a row of tortured grapes...
Want more poetry? Fuck you.
This is mine. Write your own
in your own weary blood.
Stuff it down with rags and hack and hack.
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