Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2014
The face, scarred beyond recognition
A nacked exposure against the real
Every fantasy crushed under the weight of being
Being is nothing but nackedness

A void in the midst of his heart
Amidst the dream of eternal happiness
A broken life, travailing under *******
A framework of meaning presented by lust

Nacked came I out of my mother's womb
Among ten thousand aborted infants
One woman in travail dies to bring life
Life tarnished by sores and boils!

Soothing his body with a porcupine's quill
He vomits and laments outside the scope of life
The grave seemed an inviting space
Why did the ****** ever give birth?

Why was he not among the aborted?
Why was he not a sacrifice to Baal or Molach?
May the day he was born never be remembered
Life toys with him like a cat does its prey

And lo the great consumer arises from the depths
Great as the darkness that arose in cosmic proportions
It was he which consumed the first star
It was his terrible laughter that echos in the grave

The raw laughter of pure jouissance beyond flesh and body
Beyond the confines of matter hard and real
Beyond the nature of every genus ever known to humanity
Sacrifice and die, ******* and die, this is sacred religion

Dry bones around the alter, viruses dying with hunger
No more corpses, no more decaying flesh
Create once more O divine creator, so we may eat and drink
We will once again ****** and consume

Outside the scope of the dead he lay with his sores
Discharge of stale blood and mucus surrounds his being
He was mocked for all eternity for his suffering
He refused to die, he refused to yield and he refused religion

And they took his flesh and offered it to the great beast
The one who's appetite does not rest
The one who's desire is endless like the skies
His heartbeat is the sound of negative infinity

But his flesh was devoid of nourishment
And his bones hollow without marrow
His blood was like empty air in a broken container
He was nothing but a wound- a divine wound

He himself was death, disease and pain
The trauma of the real opens up and all fantasies disappear
They disappear like the mist in the light of the morning sun
The wound is now the cure and death is now life
Written by
Cerebral Fallacy  Chennai, India
(Chennai, India)   
666
   --- and Mary Elizabeth
Please log in to view and add comments on poems