maybe if i douse my tongue in a tortuous basin of typical
prose, i might be able to chop up the syndicate of coded
mores of boredom into fragments of aught and be initiated
into the foray of linguistic foreplay that plagues the modern page.

[not a chance in the pits of pandemonium]
my mania exists somewhere in-between
the crossfire of light and sound.

where i ground up haughty anima into mounds of soot. a blackened
fire pit is all that’s left following the ritual of my nefarious séance.
i would like to conjure up a chainsaw, to shred through the gossiping
hen house, the played out whorehouse, the penurious church,
the aimless ghetto, the apathetic mansion, and every deadpan pen snorting up
the faddy powder of approval. the rev of the engine will drive inri
spikes through the hands of the bland, chiseling off flecks of oblique
caricature with each strained pronunciation.

a lapse in time.
a time for change.
no two fuses
should kindle the same.

i’ve had enough of this jaundiced safety net of paraplegic caliber.
to disappear in a minefield of laxity was never meant for me.

and I can’t conversate with ghosts
but they love watching me try.

my umbra is clotting, snowballing into an avalanche of malice,
focused on the extinction of the celebration of forgettable manifesto.
our generation needs more. more than the same tired crumbs of
mumbo jumbo and wishful fucking. there is a diaper encasing the
sensitive cavity of free form speech. no rash is ever free. flush the
pacifier from your crystal anatomy and chafe with me. liquidate the
predictably dull lullabies of neutralized average everyday tedium.

the daisies are too lethargic to bloom.
the sex is not adventurous enough to hold interest.
the drugs all wore off.
the church is obsolete.
and the topics are dead.
like decaf coffee, like non alcoholic beer,
like vampires who die of old age.
DEAD

and abstract proportions do not exist, only a lack of attention.
a squalid swing at comprehension. like the flood of a kicked
over anthill, scampering and spreading ‘till the earth is a big
red ball of snowing screen, broadcasting absolutely nothing.

give us substance over classification.

the time
is now.


© 2007 Mike P.

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