...Satire...

And then, there was no need?

There was only the joy of entertaining self-affliction.
Of hysterical pens spitting ink on lined-pages… pages lined with such droning symmetry, they give you a headache – monodirectional.

Just like monotoned songs and monosyllabled lectures.

There was joy of Liberation.
Of not knowing your anima or animus.
Of running stark naked in steaming rain.
Of no role: divine or circus-assigned.
Of bleeding green blood and laughing at that.
Of that sweet, violent Liberation.

Of the world bursting into a million lit speckles,
Of each blasted synapse, tearing down your royal clocks, moment by moment,
Of love – ah, so cold and furious, makes you bite your lip.
Of volatile earth-shakes, soul-quakes.

And again – the rise of that selfless, endless rain



… Why did God create poetry?
Or, did poetry create God?

Or is this just a trick of insincere, self-deceiving linguist?
Or won’t you ever know the answer?
Or won’t you ever know that you cannot know and still continue to want to know.

To have.

Or no, never to have. You must never desire to h.a.v.e.

Your cold-showers, walks-on-flames, joys of open, green, gangrene-ridden wounds bear witness to your acidic strength of never-to-h.a.v.e.


You have no needs.

None.




And then…
At that instant in narration…
They will come in their chariots.
From deflowered skies and frayed earth-
They will bring plastic food, clothes and a satire on something they call love.


Love – Designer made.
Carved, waxed, wrapped in wood recycled from coffins.

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And they will touch you.
Touch you – oh, dear God – right where you must n.e.v.e.r be touched.
And you will burn with that cold bite.
Burn anew, you dead, infantile wick.


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And there will be pagan celebrations…
To the gods of Forgetting and Retrograde Inhibitions.
Of desires.


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All your lessons of green wounds will disappear with screams of crispy fresh fears and repressed, lip-biting cries.

Receding slave…

You.
Feel beautiful, at least.

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