A daylight daze
has been removed to a dark city
in a DC Comic.
Nations have swallowed their tongues,
have become a caped parody
of an undeclared independence.
The good are caught in the search lights,
the bullet heads and bare-faced bad
run the globe, turn the coats,
unify the unwilling sheep into lambs
until liberty itself is the aberration.
The enemy is a suit stuffed
with daemonic dandruff
reserved to snow job the helpless.
There is a new world order now
for the meek, weak and bolder.
Globalist's glob onto the taste of power.
Our super heroes are pot-bellied
and cancelled.
RoboCop is now a peace poet;
he gently rants
in a soundproof basement,
writes sonnets to forget
the already forgotten.
Tears and beers freefall
behind crumbling walls,
we must add too tight tights to the list
of all our ripping sorrows,
shake enfeebled fists
as menacing shadows gather
and we
ever willing to cast
accusing looks upon each other.
Non-forfeiting my troth, in bonny and buxom, I believed.
What good is too good? And why is better, better than worse?
Given the first beginnings I merge intuition with silence,
And form my own variant of “das Weltspiel”, as I deny
The realm of Earth and Heaven, and the realm of God and Man.
The progeny of thought, pliant but plum, with no falsity,
Purified by a jaunt of far and beyond, thenceforth
From a beginning to an end, shines in this darkness,
So strenuous in the pleasures of conviction,
Overwhelming and powerful, almost a daemonic proclivity
Towards the duty to produce evil that destroys goodness.
The unrest is raising to overthrow the slavery reigning in the heart,
The slavery that is wearing the Totenkopf , so proud, and so it is!
I want to stop the cant I hear. Full of devilish malignity, the cant
Of a false scruple, in the world of no clear direction.
How one achieves it, if good is too good? If better is better than worse!
O, I have no predestined servility towards tolerance,
And I will passion and protest and be protestingly passionate,
In my own dimension of reality, frigidly judicious, as an old faith.
My finger throbbed, sliding red water splashing upon the slick topography, it was almost impossible to hide the laceration from these half-breed hybrids. Horns and ties, flesh costumes and ash shoes these monsters shifted between frames of realm breathers and daemonic vampirism. Cold cropped stares strung to petrify the weak hearted. She displayed elegant opulence in impervious form. Shadows among and behind me I could not touch her. Sadness dampens those cheeks of blush. If I could I would dry them but these minions of yours continue to bite my hand.
Can you hear my screams?
They tend to drown out your cries. Why are you hiding inside that mentality of flawed construct? Your lashes of sorrow blessed of the memories of a past swallowed by pride.
Look in the mirror, who is the most jaded of them all? Perhaps it is you who continues to bite my hand.
Without a tongue I no longer can scream, you made sure my words would be no more.
I only wanted to ask you if my heart still beats, or have you abolished it as well?
-Mitch
I.
Ghost-wagons roll in the ruts,
Creaking and clattering on,
Passing the villagers’ huts,
Peasants relieved, once they’re gone.
Spirits ten centuries old,
Ghosts of barbarian tribes--
Tribes whose maraudings are told
Shudderingly by old scribes.
II.
Ghost wagons leave with no trace.
Oh, but where is your child?
There he is! But look at his face!
Savage-eyed. Daemonic. Wild.
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