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Static for a Lonely Island (Prelude - I2)

The streets await,
mere lines-
streaks of gray coursing though
a barren city
like arid veins and vessels.
The streets await,
no cars to tread
the asphalt river basins
soon to welcome crimson flow.
The crazed run,
sweet lunacy-
mere lines-
streaks of flesh coursing through
unfurnished streets
like needles.
The crazed run,
sweet lunacy,
sweet exhortation
of man’s mortality,
none to serve as sweet liaison
between depravity and sense.
Bare-fisted, blood-shot beasts,
like needles course as death’s harbinger,
through these unfurnished streets.
I dare to say that stupidity
has blessed me with curiosity,
I’m on my hands and knees
as I search for a gap between
the emaciated trunks of berry shrubs.
The moonlight’s radiance succeeds,
I rest my chest upon the ground,
and have ants dance to my heart’s heated beat.
Its rhythm’s speed is increased
by the sight of what lays beneath
this shallow soil.
Under here
there is only ether,
ether dabbed
by white and yellow static,
stars alighting roots of trees
and clumps of dirt falling slowly,
to infinity.
I stand upon a two-dimensional plane,
an island in space slain
by progress and innovation.
The choking smell of urbanization,
the revolting sight of mechanization,
bear a close relation
to hell.
Behind this hedge of berry shrubs,
perimeter of the city,
is only absence.
Ethereal trails of fading confidence
trace my trembling gait.
I know now there is no escape,
huis clos.
I know now.
I cannot stand for long,
since it was not long
before death could make its presence felt.
In seconds,
occasion came to illuminate
this strange setting.
Wailing sirens,
piercing shrieks muffled
by flowing blood.
Such sights and sounds ferment
into an intoxicating blend,
bliss to the likes of them.
But me,
I will kill no man.
To me,
the Moon is a compass
as are the streetlights of my cowardice,
my civility.
Such lights may guide,
but they pollute a sky which should be littered
with white and yellow static, too.
Under their vigil,
Reason refuses to feign safety.
Reason recognizes chaos even when lit by the serene.
Reason makes despair of the erratic
and tears of sound contingency.
But Reason is a benevolent wraith,
refusing to replace those who posses me,
those who bolster my strength
as carbon does iron.
They deem this world unworthy of emptiest valiance
and thrust me into a caustic brew
of flesh-like daggers and insanity.
Such ghostly momentum,
such Mercurial boots
equipped with ectoplasmic wings
propel me, the unwilling, into safety’s absence.
Perhaps such demagogues provoke
to once again meet with brothers and friends.

22 Mar 07

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