A prophet speaks
with a jackal’s tongue
cackling on high
as a crowd gathers
from Babylon
to Xi’An.
The children of Blur and Bleach,
souls adrift in the matrix, toss
earlobes and eyelids
into unrelenting
streams. Lepers
paying pittance
to their chosen saint,
beg for an audience,
so they might tear
their saviour, limb
from bloody limb.
Praise be to
my madness
my malice
my mediocracy.
There are no answers
to questions unasked
and Eden was always
a shithole.
Best not stray
from the path
of enlightenment,
respite from anguish
born of free will.
Guided by a sound
faint but cacophonous.
Tweet
Tweet
Tweet.
Leave a Reply