Artchil Daug

Pantomime Of A Madman: Damnation - Poem by Artchil Daug

Blessed is the man who sinned from the highway incantations that resonated from roadside flowers

growing out of madness turned to his brothers and sisters, the footsteps of the carpenter's hammer

hammering, hammering, hammering the resentful nails you offered as prescription drugs for industrial depressions,

the drum of acid you use for ablution is incomparable to the poisonous ocean dripping from your fingers

burdened with hand-propelled ecstasies, chemical reactions boiling in the dust of incarcerated typewriters

carving images of virgins inserted between broken tablets of Sinai stones and deconstructed fishermen beatitudes,

sermon on the wet mound, the smell of Tacos in vaginas denied with hypocritical oaths stirred in a cup of semen

man is man as long as man takes the drugs from the goblet of chastity, an engine disguised as a moral clockwork

behind the belfry of antiquated submissions, the thousand voices of a thousand castrated children, sounding off

warnings to the alley ways of hypnotic dichotomies, a world in cartoonish black and white deprived of symphonies

from light emitting diodes that followed the crystal cracks of lightning in the corner where Santiago Nasar became a god particle,

imagine the contempt he had for the spoiled honey flowing from the mouths of self-proclaimed helms of the divine,

wise men from the slums of murdered libraries, servants of the unwritten words from which everything began

words that were casted by ancient witches in the forests of Sierra Madre, acceptable only when dressed with monotheism

that general rule of the inquisition, applied on hesitant flocks who knelt and prayed and know not he

who signaled the twilight of pardonable sex, contented in using that damned cock to the defloration of sanctified poor boys,

victims of the holy spirit, fucked by ephemeral devils clothed as saints among sinners, spreading divine juices to blank faces

justifying wicked villainies "with odd old ends stolen forth from holy writ" - William Shakespeare, Richard III, bedeviled scripture wielded

tying you upside down in the catacombs of this old church, remembering the tattered flags of the Crusades falling on moral grounds

in vain and in gratitude to the actor who never discovered the secrets of the alchemist, failed to turn god to man

transformed instead the flesh to a metronomic host that awaited salvation from male cunts abused and misused

by the blade of Abraham, the staff of Moses, and the Spear of Destiny, thieves that snatch away sanity,

faith, you are the lamb, my lamb, sacrificed to the fires of demagogic hymns, fueled by the gasoline of salvation

that ate the rope of death that graced your belly with discipline, but separates you from the moral acid.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 20, 2012

Poem Edited: Wednesday, August 29, 2012

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