it was
Desdemona
deceiver of new Edens
left black fields flooded
by the sewage coming from the open wells cut into her skin.
I've been here before. A place where saints can be violent, and still pleading
for father, please, let me go?
he releases.
Desdemona follows,
dragging her corpse
through the minds
that unhinge
for the cold mechanics
of violence;
how the Savage
tick
and sputter
their jagged gears. how the human bits,
human bang bang
counts to an unknown number,
waiting
for Desdemona to click her tongue
to spit out
to splatter
wingless
hysterical angels
across the walls of liberty
who with flaming swords
in their hands, slay
to the bellows
of a martyr's sweet rendition,
muttering
words of annihilation,
scavenging for faithful men
that
from the droning
of hissing solicitors
become fettered
to the yin
of fractured knowing
underneath skies
of starry nobility
Desdemona
sees this country
through a thimble
knows the name
of every state,
every citizen that assumes
today, they will be protected
by glory
and that tomorrows
list will not get longer
with each new birth
stamped
American,
maybe It's American.?
this fleshy
and gentle
citizen soldier
quickly taught
to remember
their place
In this
grand Nation,
already paying
the tithing
of mind
and
body
cleaned
in a kitchen sink
baptised
in the plasma of terror
with the wet
hands
of good hearted parents
commercially radicalized
by tv frenetic
freedom mobs,
fleshy
gentle
soldiers
remember to take
until swollen, because
there lives a longing,
and there lives
other monsters
caste in lighter
shades of violence.
America. You eat your own children.
America, that dines more divine
when there is a different
heathen
at the dinner table,
Land of the brave,
you worship fear.
American Desdemona
does not know
of her own death song,
she leaves the grieving
alone to paint a tableau
of future Gods
to spring from barrels
sprouting
beheaded bouquets of metal
seen in the slow motion chaos
crawling in the gallery
of methadone media.
the harbinger of all things
seemingly unimportant,
who's orders
are definite
urging stillness.
to sit with them in the quiet room
where lamenting will not be heard
told hush in the morning,
why the **** are you screaming.?
this is the ****** quiet room
this is existence, this is what surrounds us.
"What did you see?"
said
the ones warned to behave
in the silence of tragedy,
But are still sent to the
purgatory
of tin rooftops
in the midwest
or a brick cloud by the shore
bouldering their fists
to beat bright punctures
into the sky
before the eleventh hour
pushes them down eternal twilight.
here again
are the bells that toll
with the kind sound of ammunition
with the voices of
all those disagreeable people
moaning
their grim
disenchantment
for yesterday's sorrows
who stay up late, dizzy
and red faced, shouting
about the guns
of politics,
shouting
about the guns
of politics,
vomiting guns guns guns
and political despair
throwing their voices
out of windows
broken
by
expletives
twisted in the
left over red lights
that bathe rallies
in mayhem
to be taken back
to small boxes
where
young
and numb lips
smoke turpentine
after *******
to political ****
No longer shocked by politicians
who remind the masses about
9/11 jumpers
falling
to the concrete
in ten
second
intervals
they want you to
remember terror in the 10,000
Terror.
get down on your knees
and bow to obsession--
accept this
as indulgence
for what it is,
you live to be whole
but revoke
the thoughts
you inact in a soft blanket
of cerebral vices.
This is what purity
seeks in the wilds,
bloodwood virginity
wet with the constitutional lust
of victimless moaning
victimless crimes
oh
holy holy
I arch my back for you
I bend for you
I writhe painlessly
with every moment that passes
your gun can lay at the alter of my temple, surly
it will be an anointed dimming
a secret that is kept in the chest
of dual gatekeepers
who yearn for unison
and longs to tell the other,
do not be afraid
Or, Don't you dare
stand in front of
a podium, condemning
slaughter like a daily prayer
at the dinner table, prayer
that sounds like faith
and God splitting in half, prayer
which has always been
a plea to change life
into what we think it should be
like the once happy
Elitists,
now soft belly sickened
by the obscured notion
of protecting
the people they
claim as their own, if only?
apostates
of folklore,
weren't so full
with grievances,
with their
own wars
brooding and
burdened by lax limitation,
seething angry
at
the great agenda
utterly raging
against the talking mouths
too loud with
freedoms thoughts, swelling
with maddening repetition
and promptly ridiculed
into the execution
of sentimental insanity,
crazed
enough
to arm themselves with something
that does not feed the machine
in the pursuits of destroying it.
this is
Desdemona
that seeps into the burrow
of a throat
is the auditory creeping
that dredges a chemical longing
until everyone is gasping
at the horrid image of death,
or in the middle of a vitriolic
death cry
only accepting finality
if the afterlife
proved to be as infinite
as a blue sky slitting itself open
to let in the burnt offerings of the sun.
And no one will ask,
what have you taken to the inferno.?
flesh and blood,
That which is not yours.
bodies for the dead, you say.
well, how many?
not everyone
has a key
to the quiet room
away from the decidedly
unlucky,
we
Will be the ones
behind the locked door
pretending
she is not
on the other side,
unhindered by her cracked skull,
she is listlessly
heaving
dissected torso
through
junkyard corridors
collecting the dead
for tomorrow's congregation
who have become
sinfully reincarnated
by the flesh
of their own belief,
or fed into zombie culture
to sing and sway
in the pews, reciting
My people
I love you.
my God!
do I love you.
do I love you.
My God,
my Desdemona, I love you.
