Artchil Daug


Pantomime Of A Madman: Heaven - Poem by Artchil Daug

The undergrowth were lost in the shadows of closed doors and underused chlorophyll, pale faces covered with blue clothes

hiding the gleaming sunlight that burned unconvinced egos of the assembly line with the folly of aluminum eyes,

ingrates turning down rainbows, unicorns, toy guns and plastic light sabers, occurring in the fires of starving dragons,

the fertile terrain in radiant imaginations crushed with bulldozers, drowned in alcoholic neckties,

the necktie of twisted tomes and nihilistic crucifixes, the garrote, the weight of invisible cars attached

to mighty fountain pens running on masochistic ink forced from bleeding ambitions in the gallows

of a workplace filled with mimes, and sadistic smiles, the continuous masturbation for promotion

delivering the sanguinary threads to a savior searching for infidels on rooftops of stupid buildings,

anthills of our civilization, the new pyramidal communities of confusing cubicles of web-less spiders

innocent of the constellations assembling themselves in arrays of stars given birth in childhood explosions

breaking the four walls of premature cells created by obsolete parenthood fond of human domestication,

preparations for the great devourer, society cursed by the esophageal streets of Ginsberg's Moloch

making canes out of eye-popping skyscrapers constructed from vague eyeglasses and broken microscopes of virtues

constantly fixed from the process of erosion, bullshit after bullshit, swallowing another bullshit, the casual immodesty of peoples

wings of lies that rocketed them towards the heavens fucked by suffocating smog in the light of undying transubstantiation

brought to ground only in realizations of losses, in the digital sarcophagus, the loss of property, capital, investments, whatever, never

memories of embittered attachments seldom embraced for embraces were not market-driven, not the counting numbers,

the continuous tick tock, their indifferent time clocks, arresting them in a panopticon that offered their wrists with handcuffs,

their pupils, their cerebrum, all are suffering necrotizing fasciitis, moderated by noises in the televisions and computer fans,

funnels of hyperreality, inhuman ringtones that shout at anybody, pretentious of itself,

mocking the need to answer anything, everything, placing the phone on top of the priority list, until its use conformed to the sound

of the signaling messiah, yelling, angered, afraid in the long buzzing whisper of silence emanating from severed voice boxes,

singing the music of cherubims in the flow of red tears that glitter in gratitude to the resoluteness of my blade.


Comments about Pantomime Of A Madman: Heaven by Artchil Daug

  • (8/20/2012 10:37:00 PM)


    Pantomime is movement.
    Poetry is mime.
    With Happy Hardass Hacker Hick alliteration, crime.
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 20, 2012

Poem Edited: Wednesday, August 29, 2012


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