Blur and Bleach

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.

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