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I've seen teenage girls sacrificed at the altars of underground punk cults where dagger-wielding vocalists scream society's funeral dirge
skinned alive and transformed by the naked violence of that poetry
cut up into pieces and mixed with the ashes of William S. Burroughs
boiled to shit and splashed on a Parisian drug dealer's doorstep
as some kind of penance for the awful brutality of our existence
or we can all lay silently in our respective bedrooms across North America
chained to the brass handles of our wooden dressers
awaiting execution by stoning at the hands of the devil-worshiping Christian gestapo
they're in league with the corporations and the universities and the mental hospitals and the police and my ex-girlfriend
broadcasting encrypted telepathic signals designed to invoke anxiety and panic attacks
side-effects may include nausea, drug dependency, and slashed wrists
first they cut off her hands cauterized the wounds with radiation then her legs followed by her clitoris and her breasts then they tore off her head we've evolved to be obsessed with symbols in her mutilation I see the wisdom of transformation I search for prophecy in her intestines when I rip them out of her the riddles of blasphemy and desecration are blackened kaleidoscopes through which we expose the falsehood of human consciousness
swollen skin, worn and tired
toungeblood of the master race
(tentacles severed, another psychic regiment withdraws)
remote control culture
leashed with codewords
blind lions vivisected; slavery in episodes
(did Conan laugh
with panther's eyes
when Jason burned the Argo?)
no doubt drunken painters
now relish in this anarchy
white seal of cruel serenity
embosses midnight sky
