Factory Heart
A divine blacksmith didn't forge winged hearts of gold,
to soothe the burn of others.
Nor mold my body into a scratching post chant.
Where others can shed their dying dream ghosts.
I was conceived from the sable fingertips of Dali.
Flint-hearted, with a sheen of midnight black matches.
Straddling devil's dunes, in an upside-down desert...
My heart wields a wicked chain, with selfish yellow teeth.
It billows like an old factory,
discharging microscopic monsters,
easter island heads
the bones of carbon and oxygen
a pure oasis of death...
Ride these ragged flanks
eat the melting clock
roll the chipped-toothed dice.
Turned from flower to flamed-out rock...
If you want.
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