for his lucky strike;
spark lights the gray, laughing like a fool.
Form in the void, viscous teeth of the Australopithecine
lose their menace.
The Mona Lisa is burning in a museum, paint peeling back
from the classic smirk; that just intoned absurdity in a wordless
manner of fact.
A Spanish admiral barked his orders and immediately
following the sugarcanes were painted with gunpowder
that breaks O2 into separate Os on the gilded faces of serfs
holding sickle cells in a field barren of maize.
The walls of troy are burning; the gods lost their sense
of humor years prior when Prometheus borrowed a match
to light his cigarette;
and so the Greeks had no choice but to hurtle matchsticks
over Helen and Paris because the vultures stole the smokes, while
drinking gin from Prometheus' liver.
A light without a smoke is half a truth, and Achilles was ashamed
over his impotence.
His hubris really masculine,
and the heel naught but a clever ruse.
Adam's bomb dropped again; this time it was a fluke swimming
in the blood of centuries of warmongering,
all because the core of an
apples' joke is lost on faces too stoned to laugh,
too stoned to even crack a smile.
The conflagration of the eons, a bonfire burning in the courtyard
of Mu, long since reclaimed by the obfuscation of deep water.
Its magnesium glow all but lost to modern eyes.
Fire! Gunpowder! Flamethrowers in the pillbox,
combustion engines, coal plants, burning oil fields, Auschwitz's ovens,
Nagasaki's ruins, body pyres strewn over southern Asia, African
summers of scorched hope draught deserts,
small pox inflamed skin, children become ash:
incisors sharpen to fangs.
These forests swidden leave the gray soot the alpha dogs
use to paint their battle masks.
There is no longer any blood left to spill.
girders no longer leave red stains; their ends now marked in spills
of gray in the back drop of black words on the cover of the
Wall Street Journal. Technicolor words echo in refurbished stories -
blazing effigies in vacuum tubes fed by the sucking force of
generations.
It was always greed and sex, m'boy. Always greed
and sex. Whatever happened to Camelot? The first
great PR scam. The good king returns, wearing
gray. The good king returns holding painted
sugarcanes.
The cross left un-scorched on a hill.
A body combusts to ash in a tomb, stains a shroud;
Galahad touched the grail that caught the drops.
We know what the goodly king did to him.
Martyrs walk the edges radiating a sliver of magnesium fire;
drops of blood fall from the cliff side where Prometheus hangs still.
Flaming swords from forges designed
with opposable thumbs, the same that struck
the match, seal the gates of Eden - obscure
entry with sickly smoke.
And we are salamanders:
fiery amphibians forgetting that there
is nothing we need to steal from the gods,
as we crawl in the muck and grime of
illusion and depravity;
they, the gods, have nothing on us,
we walk in their world and ours, they are
stuck in archetypes waiting for the
punch line that knocks teeth clean from
gluttonous mouths.
Ascension burns a streak through the sky,
brief shooting stars;
saintly faerie fire hiding in the marsh.