deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Walking Dead

I.

Asleep at the wheel,
My hands speak of a stillborn syndicate
Burying bones behind the bungalow
Of a drug dealing single father
Who's still stuck in transit between the dead
And the undead.

The house lights are corpses in a graveyard
Of unpaid bills
Enigma Doméstico
Forgotten decompression underway,
Allowing the mind to sink into itself.

Self-awareness deep in the gut;
The stomach sick on it.
Bile rises to greet
Reflection born of predatory prudence.
Fingers grope the flesh of my mouth
Perpetually in search of decay
The teeth in my head swim with razor blades
All in hopes that the kingdoms of heaven will topple
The tongue crucified (and pissed) now begins employing illegal immigrants
To build machines from histories;

Dirt Empires

II.

Residual faith remains a tenet of today's martyrs
Parchment paid to the papacy of perverse stillness
Omnipotence: a potent pill the goddess
Swallows to show she's strong
And free of mans machinery,
Men who are
Only idled in their capacity for mercy.

No more is there a thriving generational
Explosion of change,
Only skyscrapers and day commuters,
Empty gas tanks and endless chattering
Venture capitalism
And the death of the weather underground.

From subterrestrial depths I can see Youth;
A hot commodity,
The nectar of the gods,
A waning fossil fuel displaced
By the bare knuckled genocides of
Ever sweeping synaptic tyranny.
The Gaza strip of suburbia pronouncing-
"BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! Welcome to the party!"
Everyone entangled in a daydream of flies
A perpetual buzzing of self importance and impotence
Watching the heavy feet employed by giants
Dancing on the ashes
And in the middle of this excitement,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO:
the hail of bullets.
and the semen.
and the lost wages.
and the rings of child prostitution.

The murderers of industry and imagination
Take a brief interlude to wipe the sweat from their brows.

III.

The second act.
Shovels back to the earth,
Digging deep into the valleys
Of gods eye and awakening
My inner child --a flesh peddling tranny--
Her home the sidewalks of obscurity,
Her retirement plan long dried up,
And the black hole
Between her legs
Matched only by the hole in her heart.

America, you've locked your doors
And turned the TV's up too loud.
America, you've dismantled your soul
And left only a spine;
Upright but empty, less than an ape
Living amongst the walking dead:

I dream of tree tops and an endless sky.

Instead-
Whole lifetimes are mined from the absence of action
Here, where the growing and growling belly of our satellite
Orbits absurdity,
Forcing the fetal prophet in my chest
To surrender his form
In the form of seppuku.
His death a rebirth of all that is woman;
My mother and her mother before her;
Earth.

With slowly descending fists
Of rain
The landscape turns inward:

An ocean set on fire
By backwards birth
Written by adamsmiller
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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