A more cohesive journey this time
through the garden of nefarious delights.
Trees, green, dark green, as if trees could bleed.
Company: the braggarts, the mountebanks, the real mother-fuckers;
the people who’ve built black monoliths out of pain
get sucked through and become star-children.
All the birds are ticking clocks,
They don’t know what time it is,
but that time is subjective,
and counting is for fools.
Only the fiends travel this way,
characters out of an Allen Ginsberg poem,
except this isn’t 1955 and nobody’s Howling anymore.
Hearts beat and are beaten but nobody’s crying MOLOCH—
Moloch’s been forgotten.
Moloch’s flushed out your dreams like unwanted fetuses
and remarked that this land’s not a melting pot
but a crucible.
A generation playing each other like clinically depressed theremins,
living in stone asylums and writing letters to America.
They’ve grown up with the Internet instead of God
and now that it’s time for death
they write themselves silly
waking up naked next to strange poems,
mulling over the predicament it is to be human,
writhing around in the difficult bliss of knowing,
like fun house mirrors on acid.
But Look…the sun is rising.
Orange, lemon, cyan. The miscegenation of morning colors.
You woke up here once, remember?
Music notes like eyes played psychedelic synth-punk
as your selves existed
in segregated tandem.