Page Seven Poem by B. Sven Telander

...surrepetitions, questioners of perception, conceptual debunkers, myth deflators,
faith minimizers, professional contrarions- all peruse the perversity prospectus,
gods and bombs with loud alarms,
joy of children’s chorus screaming,
young tears collecting in a pool,
clever wig beasts & hat monsters inventing new harm,
pointed evil wishes darkening the dream
with old fear doctrines glorified in the schools
while a swarm of vampire babies latch on breasts for blood;
an oblivious synchronized ice-cream cone licking family
and a hamburger clan walk with another highly eager righteous T-shirt ministry family slurping bratwurst single file, books on flesh, numb with money,
almost Ridiculords in Eschatonia courting a dispassionate curiosity
with each new escalating atrocity actually accomplished or merely contemplated, thoughts sweltering welts in gelatin brains,
painting filthy still lives of assorted reprehensible and depraved subjects
for the shuffling herd of slackjaws leaving a trail of drool droplets on the sidewalk,
living the fearful and dreary existence of boring Jebus Lunatics
who spew gargled yodels about the Tin Commandments
and the Bible-time Torture Center from smoke coated throats,
cringing from the promised wrath of Mad God Dad
who likes his coffee dark as his soul;
under cover in plain sight, rumbling grunt of a baritone metronome,
an absolutely bright and dirty day glo neon nightmare,
a depraved rainbow of shining flashing signs
and other illuminated designs beckoning with electric fingers,
a lingering legacy of the creepy hippies,
walking squawking social disease
burrowing through that popular mental garbage scow again,
feeding on pain, dining on sadness, empowered by despair,
taking strength from all the many flavors of agony and misery
in growing rooms of see-through wombs or open floating tombs
for the churlish whirlwind of children twirling in autumn twilight
outside the Remembrance Center where the Mausoleum of Memory
houses all those forgotten things from the Theatre of Skulls;
a lid chained over the wishing well in a garden of roses
where a sinister matron with a bucket of rotten apples pelts a begging girl
near the zoo of dead animals,
in cold palaces of typical fallen
another flip of the happiness switch overrides the pain relay
with laughing whispers of bliss and forgetfulness,
dream raiders hoard assorted icons,
plunder from unsuspecting sleepers,
stolen out of night minds
with narcotic pillows saturated with drug soaked down,
taken to an ever expanding reliquary,
threadbare flags flapping over the full corpse fields,
a red disemboweled crowd, scattered, mutilated across tall grass,
gory naked flowers, open human plumage,
blood puppets and meat marionettes,
for what the doormen of the Death Festival saw among the Reaper Legion
impressing dry dense clot in grain of sand psyche,
surrounding transgressors with rancor and control over aggressive pet thugs,
racking up the kills quite quick,
tremulous enemies, talented allies who master interesting deviations
from old usual rules of the roads
though collapsed in caustic autism,
incestral symbiotics, optical thrall to cathode ray monolith
where the Lord of the Orchard
slowly strolled down the endless fence line,
gazing with unblinking eyes down long rows of old trees
while zone ponies grazed on tall stained grass in the field beyond,
Gold Dog chased and ate piranha squirrels,
the beautiful danced with the ugly
for a dull insect god king on a dung throne
encircled by winged priests, kneeling beetles, sycophant cameramen,
weaving an olfactory tapestry woven with delicate dishes of sweat
perfumed people, pungent incense, delicious palette of flowers,
and an unsettling undercurrent of rot
- all soon will be traded for balance in spirit’s chiaroscuro,
from chatoyancy of the soul to dark smoldering shadow,
immediacy of pure uncensored delight,
pregnant with happy laughter,
birthing expressive unbridled joy
in courtyards of the future
built with the stones of the past...