Pestilence, vermin on the verge on madness,
championing the breakdown, the fall, the implosion,
encroaching upon the source of life, the womb,
they laugh and toast and make merry on the bones
of their victims, on the remains of days consumed and
defiled. At the expense of breath and spirit they advance,
foul, cannibalistic, pestilential existence seeking victims,
seeking hosts and substrate to infect and rot.
Cracks begin to tear up the dome,
they eat up the sheen, the purr of life with tar and soot,
mangling the bonds of innovation and existence,
spilling the precious guts of today onto the great
pond of the stagnant, our stuck and recycled
yesterday devoured by minutes and hours that regurgitate
themselves into form, patterns atavistic, restrictive, locked into step,
goose-stepping on the face of sense, to the past’s faded tunes,
a recurring nightmare haunting life with its wraith reverberations,
can you hear the mist singing in the night,
descending on the dreams of men and women, infiltrating
their visions, squelching their spirits,
crushing it like bone and cartilage in an industrial blender?
Do you hear them feasting on the future generations,
tearing flesh like beasts in the night,
ripping sinew and constitution to shreds?
Do you hear their drunken cries, the gurgling blood,
the rabid cheers, the frenzy in their toasts?
The sirens you hear at night are the wails of those they mangle,
the pleas of the dying as they’re eaten alive,
consumed by the cannibal kings of today:
the small men, the small women, the regents of civilization.
Peel your eyes, unplug your ears, and you’ll hear their
yells coming through every speaker, every connection,
every communication platform.
It sounds like a party. It is a party.
An unholy congregation for those
with blood on their jaws and tar in their hearts,
feasting on Earth’s living body,
calling it progress. Calling it natural.
Calling it quits on reason and common sense.
Calling it civilization.