Enjambment

I call you out from the slum rain drenched holes bored in
Christian-infused walls, I call you out from the
Cage of thought in which you have been taught to embrace
This painful way of
Unloving
And ungiving
And receiving words from
Unheard minds and sawing
Ears
From head and brain from mind.

Give yourself over to absolute knowledge
Where there is pleasure, and nothing called sin

Brain pull pupae from larva-encrusted tree branch
Begging contact and reaction from Faulknerian satisfaction.
A southern Gothic scene spread upon a pan placing in my hand
A choice of choices to make.
Spirit pull brain from dark abyss
Remiss souls contract walls and call skeletal remains
Apart from inside urns laced with Egyptian lotus and crystalline cannabis.
Call me out from this hell of words and letters and stories and years.
Untie this phraseheap from its narrative structure.
Self reflexive poetry fulfills no prophesy.
Inset on the insert emblaze the golden phallus.
Absorb its fluids into a half baked and monotonous orifice.
Emphasize the crystallized method of truth.
Take five of these and call me when you wake up, he said.
She nodded and slipped out the door draped in a gossamer web of satin sin.
He shook his head, because he knew she never thought in fives.
He adjusted his sleeve and sat, pecking at his typewriter
Some arcane narrative which would never be “fit to print.”
The tragic hero had not realized that
Truth and honesty are long gone in the realm of literature.
Can not make a buck on truth and thought.
Must echo cliché if want to get paid.
She walked the city streets over programmed beats
No nike hightops to get her high.
She purchased salvation by the Benjamin, always claiming this fix her last.
This is the night I learn to survive.
She sits on walkway paths covered with butts from the government dope.
If I’m gonna die, she said, that fucked up government's not
Gonna tax my method of suicide.
The heart makes a much more suitable target than the lungs.
Combustible.
There's only one, not two.
Inhale
Exhale.
Static but revolving.
Too long.
Inject, remove.
Instantaneous.

Ephemeral bliss transcends the world temporal.
She sits on clouds with her fiftyfold Bhagavad-Gitas at her side.
Arjuna won’t stop bitching. She doesn’t even care anymore.

There is no solution or retribution, divine or otherwise.
Merely a man playing piano on the black side of a curtain.
Veiled from existence and loving reconnaissance by his own ignorance.
There is no more pot to smoke.
No more mushrooms to chew and make you fantasize of northern caribou.
No more paper stamps to lick and send you off into Saturday idyllic romances.
We are a disconnection from the central hub of consciousness.
Our feet are numb, and the sensation works its way up our fetal confines.
We are naked and alone on this the vigil of our birth.
Our people have been taught hatred and blame-placing to a master’s degree.
They have been taught to subjugate their needs to a central and illogically (but green and eco-friendly) burning hate.
We are placed in self-loathing skin and bones.
We are taught to hate in the twilight of our Sundays,
Only to be born with it again at dawn on Mondays.
We cultivate our children’s prejudices in fields fertilized by our own.
So in Spring great plants of Shit doth bloom!
For like feeding like with like only breeds more like.
Our final salvation is our eternal doom.
When our great filament of the sun is lit and romanced to the one
Who greets us with firm glances and cheers
And minimizes the frights of our years
Will the great flame of edelweiss come to envelop our foes?
Or envelope our ambitions?
Sealing them tight in malina to burn
Eternal night to us doth earn.