Preview:
Posted: Sat Oct 12, 2019 8:49 am
.
ten million dead on the internet
but the pain in his fingernail
inside his flattened mind
is worse than any pale genocide
he feels no nostalgia these days
for the dazed nights of insomnia
waiting for the haze of daylight
and the tight ways of paranoia
a red cocking knock on the door
it’s her from the floor above
her whore’s minutes offer
more than sucking love
she counts money inside her head
and thinks about the multitudes
of bacteria alive in her eyes
staining her neon horizons
ice-cream man needs food
she thinks within her aura
of last night’s rubbery probes
and pheromone tobacco sweat
the elevator cube smells like fire
from black rope across an alley maw
as the mouth and the machine grin sinew
descending into bone circles of silence
words on glass, a clash and clatter
steaming between levitating plates
the globular walls streaming acid yellow
eggs wet with visions of cannibal chickens
as surreal as it seems, this is the safe part
of the netherworld; this shaky otherworld
is a patched facsimile of mass memories
downloaded and broadcast organically
so, the ice-cream man doesn’t know he’s dead,
and the whore thinks of somehow escaping
goatish men, her tortures and the brain wires
But all the edges here are pinned until tomorrow.
ten million dead on the internet
but the pain in his fingernail
inside his flattened mind
is worse than any pale genocide
he feels no nostalgia these days
for the dazed nights of insomnia
waiting for the haze of daylight
and the tight ways of paranoia
a red cocking knock on the door
it’s her from the floor above
her whore’s minutes offer
more than sucking love
she counts money inside her head
and thinks about the multitudes
of bacteria alive in her eyes
staining her neon horizons
ice-cream man needs food
she thinks within her aura
of last night’s rubbery probes
and pheromone tobacco sweat
the elevator cube smells like fire
from black rope across an alley maw
as the mouth and the machine grin sinew
descending into bone circles of silence
words on glass, a clash and clatter
steaming between levitating plates
the globular walls streaming acid yellow
eggs wet with visions of cannibal chickens
as surreal as it seems, this is the safe part
of the netherworld; this shaky otherworld
is a patched facsimile of mass memories
downloaded and broadcast organically
so, the ice-cream man doesn’t know he’s dead,
and the whore thinks of somehow escaping
goatish men, her tortures and the brain wires
But all the edges here are pinned until tomorrow.