B. Sven Telander

Page Nine - Poem by B. Sven Telander

Asylum Nine has been compromised.
Security is non-existent.
The Chief Executing Overlord of Paradoxicon
has released Lovely Hideous and the Beautiful Mutilator
into a blinding bright midnight again in the forests of mind
to haunt and drown in the open wound,
splayed fading brains on the faltering altar
of the American nightmare,
catch all sounds on the dying wind until darkness at dawn,
where the cult of invisible blood count thoughts,
thieves give gifts to the phalanx of the shattered,
the legions of broken men, in a gigantic inside-out pig,
the black door to the morgue under
the chapel of fast acting tragedies.
Scar Harvesters follow the devastator’s imperative
passing a fat hat for the god of the gun,
clock hostages wearing wristwatch handcuffs in cities of coins, enslaved in the relentless continuum of time, planning the unstoppable assault into tomorrow, murdering eternity in abandoned labyrinth, Eden bleeding for forgotten puzzles,
heaven rendering hell’s skeleton in neglected enigmas,
trading decaying mysteries for insurgence of indulgence,
condensing the tropes, usual predictive redundancies;
Friction Industries and Conundrum Institutes
dutifully contribute toward the grand ongoing constrictions
of the always never-ending Monstorium Factoria.
All must obey the demands of The Command:
Invincible ShadoWolf, Galaxy Girl, Mr. Relentless, The Wicked Spinster, Dr. Zombie, The Night Squire, Ox Cobblestone, & Captain Chubby...or else,
during many last days all will know the pleasure
of screaming that never stops,
future that hurts with devouring hours,
words that bleed, viral love consuming the frenzied mass,
moaning alone, yet together in a flesh ocean
drowning in self absorption, monotony of gluttony,
murderer and murderee simultaneously,
abuzz in a paroxysm of giggling whimsy,
staring at the cosmic pavement, rats scavenging
in a long crawl through the confused garbage heap of history,
an empty fellowship, brotherhood of the hollow brain,
smokable popes and the ritual call,
cannibal priests of Camelot selling moldy bibles in Hades,
needle born stigmata injections of the Jesus drug,
Holy Bile, glorious abomination contagion,
in blind disregard for the elegant and visible
natural religion of the material universe
in some pathetic blundering odd illusory trade-off
for the rot of a thug god born of long dead dumb men
who had rabid habits of dining on stinking heaps of feces
in hopes of shitting out gourmet meals;
some invisible ghost of a god,
weighty with whispers and tricks,
shifts of light, shadows, and flickering nothings
seen from corners of idiot eyes,
crude rudimentary delusions in the lying minds
of a world of lunatics, those true believers
embracing the beloved sanctioned insanity called faith, developmentally disabled and deliberately damaged,
oppressed mentally by stifling banalities,
celebrating the ongoing madness evolving
in histories growing hall of skulls, dominating necro-architects, sleeping fools dreaming small dreams, prattling babes gripped by darkcarnal self-torture regurgitating preying evil memes,
apocalyptic utopia, foul idea rabies of sadistic harm, malevalentines, persistent loathing, beneviolence,
fear and weakness secretly held most dear, utopian apocalypse, urgently nursing curdled deathmilk from oblivion’s diseased bosom
and demanding construction of even more cages
in imagination’s dungeon.
But was there, is there,
somewhere devoid of Scrutamini Scripturas?
When Forever was the night,
far from the maze of monarchs,
a long rain falls strong,
the magic of impossible physics,
delicate ache of a beauty so primal,
fragrant with naked days of boundless promise,
pregnant with innocence, hope, creation;
full of calling songs longing for glorious mystery,
loving murmur of open heart secrets,
simplicity rejoicing in an expanding garden of joyful choices,
from gentle redemption to unencumbered spirit.
Asylum Nine has been compromised.
Security is non-existent.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, June 15, 2013

Poem Edited: Tuesday, July 30, 2013

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