The Avenging Angel
What she perceives
as a low, sexy voice
slightly hyped by
high test speed is
a sound as if
from beyond
the grave, a banshee
wail, savage keening
from the darkest
point inside
the occluded soul,
something from inside
the rock of her heart,
withdrawn from
circulation & pressed
in vinyl, re-
mastered as long
playing CD selections,
two cuts for a
buck, her remaining
life force a garish,
object among neon
embers, spiraling,
variegated among
lost schematic patterns
of virtual light.
The Black Hole
He looked as if
his brain had
been sand blasted
clean of all
thoughts, memories
& ideas, all
the blood drained
from his body
& replaced by
a liquid that
smelled vaguely
of formaldehyde,
claimed to be
a true denizen
of the night
in need of
the elixir of
life, sat smoothing
out an incredibly
wrinkled Gold
Certificate twenty
dollar bill
on the scarred
surface of the bar
with an inane
grin on his face
that seemed to
suggest he expected
service sometime
in the not too
distant future.
White Sickness
He looked as if
he had been kept
in cold storage
hanging upside down
by his ankles
by some creature
like The Thing,
all the blood
had drained from
his body and re-
filled by a team
of misguided, well
meaning scientists
who substituted
ethanol for his vital
fluids, primed his
artificial heart until
all systems were Go
and sent him back
on the streets moving
by rote animal robotics,
completely without
motivation or purpose
except for a deeply
instilled prime directive
endlessly repeating
through the snowblind
static of his alcohol
soaked brain, Go Forth
and Procreate, a purity
of purpose hard to
deny, drawn as we was
like a moth is to flame.
No comments:
Post a Comment