Overload
On razor-edges, Chinese windchimes tinkle and peel,
eclectic charges skip, crackling and white,
from synapse to synapse.
Neck muscles then cord, piano wire strained,
arched spine, gruesome human bow, neither arrow nor target;
spittle-flecked lips morph shades of Arctic blue,
glacial, foaming soundproofed mantras against dead audilogy.
A hard rain teems, lancing descent on films of milk cataracts.
Strangely, somewhere, distant yet proximate,
heavenly choirs, wind their cranked harmonies
to souped-up, velociraptor, tension-pitched screams – so
fast, so sudden, they mostly time travel backwards.
Something, somewhere, treads aloft in this house,
traversing the rafters, the wooden beams, pale and
shrouded, not alive, yet not dead – maggot animated,
epileptic with psychic torment and beauteous birth.
And somewhere, the rat-palpable dark, crouches destiny –
bright with disease, emaciated, feral with such hunger.
Calculating the precise strikepoint moment, it
springs for the sweetest meat, tearing a portal
to all possible futures, dealing a random loaded deck
to the viscera of rabid chaos.
Thus played, the archangel cleansing purity
of deconstruction…
reconstruction…
yields forth creation’s harvest.
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