“Waste in a Wasteland” by Eric

A waste in a wasteland
Of deep red batteries
Of passion and vanity.
As soon as I accept illness,
That's when I will be healed.

The glory of a year.
The story of amazement's teary ears,
Listening to my blood dissipate and vaporize.
The sound of stone-faced lies.
It's a shield, after all, the way men stretch their bodies.
It is to feel the sound of softness and loosened sinew.
You see them behind sunglasses,
The robotic leering from heart to heart,
Hardened ghost matter, spoiling flattered art.

He is sanity.
He is real.
I have joined the jester in his swampy lot.
Abortions of crooked rays of darkness,
Shadows that sear the seer,
Shadows that placate the lame.
Shoe divining tennis court copulations,
Spectatorship recoil when the shit hits the fan
Of the mouth, and the man is marred
By stink and stain, scarred
By soulsinking shame.

Craziness is a spirit,
The spirit of insanity, like the spirit of grace,
Or the spirit of evil.
I let it run through me like a sword
To conquer my organs, reinvent in me umbilical cord,
Born again to the steel of harsh magnetic eyes,
Green like magenta,
Red like azure pain.
Floating past myself, the shivers shake me.
My body shudders with all the world's blame aimed
Right at my underhanded story upon this gory whorish shore.

Sheer measurement is sufficient to confound the man half-square,
But three-quarters round.
I insist upon bliss and break my balls in the deadfall
From the snow-doused singing of spring
To the stop-drop role of summer swimming pool gossipfool.

It is around.
It is the needle's plump poisoned love chamber.
It is the frill of frost from fried chicken and chill.
It is the stain-glassy eye watching fireworks in the mirror-
Up close.

It is the no one man looking mealy upon class and wealth
And perfume and better bowel health.
Don't force it, it has been said.
I'm not.
I have to live to die.
I have to crash to fly.
Have to choke to sigh.
Must run to lie.
Must soak to dry,
Dry as the electricity humming in my veins,
When all along, earth is still the same.
A river is nobody's fault.
No one's to blame.
Blame for a blessing?
That is insane.
Blame the turkey for its flaky stuffing?
That is insane.

Why would anyone care about the man screaming in seven spectrums
At a world deaf to light and blind to sound?
Why must they rile the crocodile, Leviathan of perfect pompous swamp?
In the lost paradise, he's skulking past the woeful waves rolling in tumult
To the caucus of evil ages.
That violent horn blasts throughout the disdainful wasteland,
And it sounds unheard upon the surface
Where the twittering of birds doesn't seem to hurt us,
Yet the strings of our heartharp are slung halfway over the darkened shoulder,
Plucking, just plucking a tone at a time, a recess, then a refrain of misery sublime.

Innocent are we, innocent as we are lame.
Battlefield brain aches under drastic acid rain.
You, me, claimed to have sang the fertile birthday hymn,
Celebrating who and who and him who knows the musical
Instruments of pain, strumming prostrate, nerves a radiance,
A song to maximize the wiseness of the masses,
Mixing molasses with taxes to the realm-
The laxatives of Abraxas lined up on street drugstore shelves.

Our sores open up like eyes.
The brilliance of dimness and dissonance filters in like ice
And an invisible, tardy destiny darts through our best attempt at density,
High mass, a labyrinth loosened, sponged out like coffeecake,
Burning the worms that crawl wriggleful croaking and all.

The hostess is greeting the faithful at the door,
Jag-toothed, ruthless, halitosis, razor-clawed,
A jiggling jaw that roars- Welcome all!