A Slave To This Slaughterhouse Imagination

I.

Sharp tree-fingers of sun shadow

creep steadily across the forest floor.

 

Bare feet stumble hastily over nature’s

haphazard patchwork: a stitched together

blanket of bruised autumn leaves.

 

Trembling toes grip the frozen soil

as stinging eyes wander delicately over

the contours of an ice-coated river.

 

Overhead the mangled vines creak,

the canopy a tortured swirl of limbs

and snakes that the taunting trees

have sewn together in a writhing knot

of entropic defiance.

 

As the perspective shifts

the brooding sky above

shrinks into a pale blue dot,

only held into place by the sun’s

wistful nuclear exhalations.

 

II.

Pale rope-like fingers

weave through a slipknot mind,

coaxing forth reptilian skin

which sporadically flares in angry hues

like a sputtering eternal flame:

fitfully oxidizing methane

from the earth below.

 

Dreams burrow like icicles into

the oval windows of consciousness.

 

Rise to the top.

Rise to the top of the swelling anger,

surf the bleeding waves of retribution.

 

The artist must aim their only weapon

towards the universe’s hungry heel

(forever staining the dark cosmos

with splashes of righteous indignation).

 

III.

The smell of burnt velvet rises

from the soft blue flames

of limping courtship.

 

The hallmark vibrations of the universe

guide our drunken rhythms step by step,

eventually leading to the intoxicating movements

that distinguish this brutal dance of the living.

 

Oh, the brittle brilliance of a mind

held up on chopstick stilts,

of a mind that reaches deeply

into the sea of writhing photons

only to pull out the wistful

sound of entropy laughing.

 

IV.

Pale rope-like fingers

weave through a slipknot mind,

leaving the tattered cloth of resentment

hanging down in battered strands.

 

These are the staggering heart wounds

of consciousness, displayed for all to see.

 

Dreams burrow like icicles into

the oval windows of my brain.

 

V.

Like a quark caught in a sandstorm,

I am a slave to this slaughterhouse imagination.

 

Out of the long-haired sky,

with its immutable roots of gray,

come the dreamscape machines,

wickedly blooming across

the black-drop skies of the

interstellar void.

 

Oh, the brittle brilliance of a mind

held up on chopstick stilts,

of a mind that reaches deeply

into the sea of writhing photons

only to pull out the wistful

sound of entropy laughing.

 

VI.

Home is shelter,

the mind a prison.

 

I feel it in my backbone.

I scratch it into my skin:

the soft breath of a trillion outstretched stars

is the flame in which I burn.

 

I feel it in my backbone.

I scratch it into my skin:

the soft breath of a trillion outstretched stars

is the flame in which I burn.

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