Caged Bodies

When a caged bird's neck gets twisted,

the whole world looks. 

When a living bird's cage rattled, 

its whole world shook,

but the world world did not look.

Talons clipped, eyes gauged, body crooked,

shaking as if the world lived while he was perishing.

But he was alive, and that was that: 

People speculate the caged bird, with its externally caused pain,

and an image flashed like some film -- 

like a picture morphing, 

like a dead body decaying,

like a slave body burning, 

like a peasant yearning, -- 

watching a genre reiterating. 

Watching the caged bird burn,

people forget it once had feathers,

it once had talons,

it once had eyes, 

and projecting this image of death

as if the bird did not live. 

The same cage rattles,

as the bird suffers like a Phoenix:

it does not forget the pain 

and it does not live a new life.

Same bird, same cage:

it all burns. 

Ascension of Hope

With the exam paper slowly descending,

like Satan escaping the grace of God, 

into my hands, and as time

sharpens with its bludgeon tool, 

the cracks and holes of my mind

are slowly repairing by the hands

of the blacksmith.

The craftsmanship of mentality that he

has inherited me has ascended

any means of judgement,

I am free. 

The binds of marks and absence

of magnitude has relegated

the status of magnificence

to be nothing than a name.

The joy and jubilence

that discovery gives me

is the same that Columbus

endowed on his journey

to the New World.

This novelty

gives me satisfaction not in

the hopes of a five, 

nor the dissatisfaction of 

anything but a five,

but rather in the 

spirit of covenance

that so many have endured.
I'll follow the path most followed,
and the one least followed,
for I am ambivalent,
walking in both,
regardless, I will pace,
back and forth. 

Time's undying parasites

of captivation 

transcend the modes 

of examination,

for I am indulgent in the

avarice of knowledge

and the bounty of wisdom

that it has handed to me.

So, perish, 

soul of expectancy

for the Devil of 

Creativity

resides in me.  

Lines Charted

A peninsula of imaginary proportions,

where the lighthouse keeper

disposes of his predisposed notions.

Open to interpretation, the land is not for her --

That sardonic Being of Truth, 

making mockery of the False Devil. 

Bearing that twin-pang teeth, 

she scoffs at he who revels; 

the joy and bliss of that sanguine adventure,

where no compass and telescope can guide

him through the rumble of the ocean, he is sure -- 

O Truth, you throw rubble to justify

the being of your existence. 

Within the confines of these lines,

you bear no soul in mine, 

Perish, for you do not lie here hence! 

Eyes Wide Shut

Feelings, your chains 

imprison me to feel

the catharsis of humanity.

Whether it be the 

shackles of agony,

or the lynchings of slavery,

or the torture of negligence,

your eyes penetrate through the 

indifference of her difference:

she is no dissident from the

lines of societal arbitration,

nor does she scorch my soul

like the passion of the Third World.

Why do you glimmer in this 

abyssal sky,

waning to the glimpse of my eyes.

Or is your light merely 

a reflection of my hopelessness created

through the falsehood of my lies.

Acknowledgement buried deep inside me,

desiring to flee,

but I remain a fugitive,

scared of my domestic

position.

These feelings locked up,

Eyes Wide Shut. 

Media and we

Spider Web image
Propagating the message:
Superior US

Mouse and Man

Flee, escape, disappear!
The mouse scurries the maze
conditioning its safety from fear.

Nature so controls the Giant of nature puppeteer --
of the Field he masterfully razes.
Flee, escape, disappear!

Natural tendencies, he excites the Will of Fear;
the Voices of Education that was so raised:
conditioning its safety from fear.

Duality raised from forces so near,
hemispheres convergent in own domestic Lair.
Fear, escape, disappear!

The blind and the deaf have nothing to fear
he who questions does not dare:
conditioning its safety from fear.

Stroke some Genius without a tear.
For it has found its sanctuary mare
Flee, escape, disappear!
Conditioning its safety from fear.

Bio

Chainsaw massacre:

putrid flesh burning in the

refrigerator. 

The Herd

Enclosed in a niche of an inconstant ocean,

there's tranquility in the collapse of an

ever constant day.

From the awakening of our Lords,

that command their toy soldiers

to consume, produce, and kill.

What's the difference? Really.

Once water in our hands,

later cyanide in their eyes.

Torture. Who could care less?

Really.

Sharpen their weapons,

load the arsenal,

recite our allegiance --

what a wonderful spectacle

Fascism is.

No need for liberty and democracy;

when everyone has nothing, ergo,

we have everything.

No capitalist hoarders to tell us

to command the post of the same

factory of production that

creates ignorant beings of consumption.

This wonderland that granted me perpetual

satisfaction in the quotidian inevitability

of an undying die...

Threatened by those who claim

the merit of freedom in

the West.

How I scoffed when

their heads went flying to the West

after I reported to the General.

Agonizing eyes that tried to pierce

through my soul -- spelling "how can

you do this to your brethren" --

stopped by my iron wall of

indifference.

The more time that passed the less

I cared about the sharp slitting sound

of the knife as it crucified their

fates while I sat in my chair eating

pork that looked like their countenances

fat.

Like a lost lamb, I found myself in the herd...

20 heads mean nothing.

We're all satisfied because

the other is.

Does it really matter?

Frankly, I don't care.

------------------

By the way, this was supposed to be a satire, and a critical short story. If that didn't get through, well, I'm that much of a terrible person. Just kidding.

The Flame That Does Not Wane

Time crosses the waning man;

at a crossroad, standing 

where he can. 

The convergence of demand,

paths he must isolate, damn; 

for no matter what, reprehended 

Is anyone who has a path; 

unlike the fluxing flow of Fire, igniting unpunished;

For its flame can handle the wrath

Of an undying tide of trouble, imperishable. 

Immeasurable capacity, for its audacity 

Galvanizes its spirit for triumph. 

Leaving behind a Trail of Tears, 

its tail wanes gloriously --

a flame that never flees. 

Father's Slanted Mirror

The Mirror slants, distorting Time;

Intrinsic birth, reflecting Him. 

Father of my existence.

Silver hair transcending youth

Bleeding my being red;

Drawing lines, counting mine. 

Clockwork running the Towers of Time

Ticking to the beat of mine. 

Approaching consummation,

Blind. Transfixed on undoing grave. 

Agony in indifference,

Unknown to obituary. 

The Mirror slants, distorting Time;

the glass inwardly shatters,

future death of Twain.