B. Sven Telander


Page Eight - Poem by B. Sven Telander

A crowd of disparate characters resentful at a dormant author’s neglect,
deranged angels secret demons, know metafear at the monster factory,
without purpose roaming through the Gallery of Machines in the Land of Robots:
Pulsar Starheart, the Fungus Brothers, Mr. Finish & Dr. Stop, Miss Dixie Dangerdancer & Trixie Troublepixie, Federal Dexter, Sir Snakefang, Charlene Marine AKA Fab-U-Lass, Durty Randy- the vulgar drunken yodeler, Farto the Clown, the Damage Twins- Serpentine & Crystalline, Jonny Monster and the Carnivore Kid, Bustifer McHooligan, The Rulesmith, Runelord, GI Gigolo and Killboy, Scarbox Burrhead, Axelrod Bungalow, Snorthog Snuffbox, Mister Mercurious, Captain Rooster & Diaper Monkey, Mr. Buster Mustang, Lethal Ethel;
all recite tantrum mantras at the Total Hotel
while others of the Tattooed Parents Association
meet at Humpington Manor in one of many imaginary cities
Negatropolis, Land of Do-What-We-Will,
home to Blindhaven Graveacres, Troublemaker Stadium, Atrocity Arena, the Ill-informed Idea Institute, Perversity University, Crap Unlimited Incorporated, Pan Global Prophecy Watch and Professional Secular Confessional franchises of the Church of May Be
and the Citadel of Would Be Forever
where the force of persistent morons and kindness mobs
form a galvanized front of pernicious whispers, synchronized salivation,
gargantuan inhalation, opinionated belch of frightened grumblebunnies,
where the port wine stained Queen has nothing but praise
for the shit-bucket boys trapped in that land called Pretensia
swarmed by mirth-drunk paradians at the Crossroads of Chaos,
where Order Borders meet Fluctuation Stations at Oblivion Point;
from half-past twilight to dark ‘o clock to quarter to morning,
where all hand holding couples are potential public fornicators
willing to trade seething lust roiling beneath the skin
into an exuberant display of primal carnal rutting
given the right sensual nook, cranny, shadowy or sunlit haven,
and the proper frames of minds or,
if shame free exhibitionists, slick ticklers,
who go to it with thrust-hungry abandon,
unconcerned by, and indeed hopeful for,
other eyes to witness the show of eager flesh pressed on eager flesh,
working like dogs in hell to afford the rent in heaven;
some have heard of Corndog Johnson,
the limping old man with artificial knees
who lives and travels in a battered RV
powered by a petty devil imprisoned in the engine,
and who spirits away damaged people
from toxic remnants of once-loved lives,
into happier times via portals in his artwork;
those desiring escape seek him out;
yet Cradlevice Time Merchants,
dukes of driven purpose with butchery born,
a haven for vermin, a rodent harborage,
disguised as an elegant gentlemen agenda,
the rulers of this ruined society,
want him captured and those he rescued enslaved,
though scavenged paintings release none:
not the one with a robot cowboy astride a triple horned cyborg horse by a river of oil, inverted factories in the sky pumping out clouds, red eyed oversized bats darkening the sky above burning trees,
nor crucified Elvis with arms outstretched around a last supper of dogs playing poker with matador and bull, sad eyed clowns shed tears from the sidelines while wide eyed children read comic books and a rainbow arch of Evel Kneivel jumping covers it all,
not the one with giant bald eagle firing laser beams from its eyes at turban wearing Godzilla with gun barrel eyes atop a high pile of bodies, scrawny wild dog packs knaw in a frenzy below, syringes raining down, frightened survivor observers with camcorders recording camcorders, cell-phones calling cell-phones, howling for the imminent return of Jesusaurus to pour forth more words of smoke,
idea ash for little scribblers,
bleating dungeon grubbers,
cruel vendors plundering filt
for jewels of breath,
drunk lungs gargling festering obscenities
to stars on a vague lark,
others wondering what became of wonder.

Topic(s) of this poem: dreams, imagination, procrastination, writing

Form: Free Verse


Comments about Page Eight by B. Sven Telander

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags


Poem Submitted: Sunday, August 30, 2015



[Report Error]