It is spreading so fast...And we are only helping it.
On the screen, a vision of horror spreads out before my eyes. Wild fires hiss in vicious mood swings. I watch them crinkle as thin as paper. They lay out multitudes of crayons and let the apes draw. One is bound to vomit a bible.
It is a distinct picture of harsh accents and babies' eyes; blue as the trembling stars. I close my eyes and pretend not to look. Transparency makes the image awfully blurred. I can still see, but in a hazed, dainty, snowflake way. It burns like acid as my vision yearns for the sight. Chaos covets us as we peel past innocence, wheeling on death beds. The sound is sulfuric and yellow. It sticks like eye crusts. I wipe it away and it scratches my cornea. I realize I cannot avoid this.
Tragic cigarette smoke pricks their fingers like childhood needles. Though they are so far away, I can feel them burning me at once. An invisible placenta weaves through the air on cat hairs. We have been connected at birth, connected by blood. I have done nothing to atone, and I see we are connected by another. We are of Godless castes.
I can feel crescent cells pulsing through their veins.
Anemic sights of sunken children dance for me. They are hanging puppets on embryonic strings. I reach out so fervently to pull a labeled cord. The lettering is fascist and sterile. My delirium refuses literacy. I draw my hand back to see trickles of infected sweat. I know there is only African shade beneath me.
"One gallon of saliva," they say.
"What a messy job," I say.
"One drop of blood," it says.
They wonder if such a beast could even bleed.
Their Chinese fans let off airs of opulence.
They do not realize they cannot avoid this.
Humanity crumbles beneath me, just as was televised. Vowels drip from my speech and I find myself speaking in tongues. I throw myself down and genuflect to the mirror. The ghastly reflection is of opposite gender, but we are the same. I realize his darkness and I approach. He shakes his head and I realize once more. In order to help, good deed is not enough. Good deed is simply apathy wrapped up in boxes. To help, we need one simple concept.
Touch.
I pause as the phones ring. Donations are made like summer picnics. A smiling woman with satanic botox giggles at my form. She leans close to the teleprompter and gasps. "Only you can save a life."
She seems to point at me, but I understand she is pointing at others.
I recognize her simply. She was handing out concert tickets last night.
Tonight she is handing out death.
This is a show I would not watch. As high as the ratings are, I frown at the union and sigh. My eyes shut once more and I realize I cannot avoid this.
The sounds are beginning.
I hear the calls of their intestinal walls. Their screeches are nasal like rubber pigs. The hollows of their stomachs creak in ways my ears are so attuned to, but their voices are so foreign.
I see them pleading and for a moment. Their liquored faces fade into a gastric murmur.
All goes quiet and the sound of radio static lays a thick blanket over us.
We lean fast, only to be swept away.
I realize I cannot avoid this.
Poetry by Seraphina
Read 490 times
Written on 2007-06-15 at 19:54
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Epidemic
I turn to the television with an eerie glance. I hear the man's voice playing backwards as he grins to me. He sounds televangelic, loud and empty. I cover my ears to press him away. He leans from his glass dome and kisses me. He tastes like onyx and vinegar. I wipe his red saliva from my lips. I realize I cannot avoid this.On the screen, a vision of horror spreads out before my eyes. Wild fires hiss in vicious mood swings. I watch them crinkle as thin as paper. They lay out multitudes of crayons and let the apes draw. One is bound to vomit a bible.
It is a distinct picture of harsh accents and babies' eyes; blue as the trembling stars. I close my eyes and pretend not to look. Transparency makes the image awfully blurred. I can still see, but in a hazed, dainty, snowflake way. It burns like acid as my vision yearns for the sight. Chaos covets us as we peel past innocence, wheeling on death beds. The sound is sulfuric and yellow. It sticks like eye crusts. I wipe it away and it scratches my cornea. I realize I cannot avoid this.
Tragic cigarette smoke pricks their fingers like childhood needles. Though they are so far away, I can feel them burning me at once. An invisible placenta weaves through the air on cat hairs. We have been connected at birth, connected by blood. I have done nothing to atone, and I see we are connected by another. We are of Godless castes.
I can feel crescent cells pulsing through their veins.
Anemic sights of sunken children dance for me. They are hanging puppets on embryonic strings. I reach out so fervently to pull a labeled cord. The lettering is fascist and sterile. My delirium refuses literacy. I draw my hand back to see trickles of infected sweat. I know there is only African shade beneath me.
"One gallon of saliva," they say.
"What a messy job," I say.
"One drop of blood," it says.
They wonder if such a beast could even bleed.
Their Chinese fans let off airs of opulence.
They do not realize they cannot avoid this.
Humanity crumbles beneath me, just as was televised. Vowels drip from my speech and I find myself speaking in tongues. I throw myself down and genuflect to the mirror. The ghastly reflection is of opposite gender, but we are the same. I realize his darkness and I approach. He shakes his head and I realize once more. In order to help, good deed is not enough. Good deed is simply apathy wrapped up in boxes. To help, we need one simple concept.
Touch.
I pause as the phones ring. Donations are made like summer picnics. A smiling woman with satanic botox giggles at my form. She leans close to the teleprompter and gasps. "Only you can save a life."
She seems to point at me, but I understand she is pointing at others.
I recognize her simply. She was handing out concert tickets last night.
Tonight she is handing out death.
This is a show I would not watch. As high as the ratings are, I frown at the union and sigh. My eyes shut once more and I realize I cannot avoid this.
The sounds are beginning.
I hear the calls of their intestinal walls. Their screeches are nasal like rubber pigs. The hollows of their stomachs creak in ways my ears are so attuned to, but their voices are so foreign.
I see them pleading and for a moment. Their liquored faces fade into a gastric murmur.
All goes quiet and the sound of radio static lays a thick blanket over us.
We lean fast, only to be swept away.
I realize I cannot avoid this.
Poetry by Seraphina
Read 490 times
Written on 2007-06-15 at 19:54
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
