Saturday, May 31, 2008

Dirge Beat


Stoned!Stoned!Stoned!-----my mind a whirling pinwheel scattering Technicolor zits across the sky, turning, turning, slowly turning as we creep towards our destiny as a culture of death, raining fire from the sky as the furred angel sings its death chant while church and state copulate on dead cinders once vibrant and alive, as stars fade from the bunting to be replace with death heads, and the old man’s laugh is a rasping rattle as zombies wander aimlessly from amusement to amusement, waiting for the dancing screen to stimulate their dead hearts into a pale imitation of life, slowly squeezed into silence as Paula, Brad and Jennifer sing their siren songs and souls splinter on the shoals of boredom.

Tighter, ever tighter, the dance floor is cleared and the night-lights click off one-by-one ‘til only the dank darkness is left, heavy with the miasma of stale booze and the vomit of the of the ecstatic, numbed to the heavy weight of their chains (for the bound man a fraction of an inch is a mile; an inch all of eternity.)

Beat freedom’s drum, snookums! Beat it loud; let their hearts beat as one with the slow tread of the dirge-march of the distracted; a slow beat, a steady beat, while those deaf to its cadence paint vapors on the clouds, dissolved and distorted with each passing breeze.


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