drowning darwin - and the great hand seeks another evoluntionary step / dead end.
6 minutes to decide to live or die
the serial killer staring contest
with the canvas soul centerfold
treading water and hard line lithium
to sedate the magnificent malevolence
seven finger senses - the other three
set to roman numerals like the hands
of moths selling advertisments
burning under the ultra-violent sun.
writing down fiction for order and policy
(now we call citizens: hostages)
for reactionary physics / push - pull
and the Books are out of date as soon as
the covers are closed.
these white teeth shining death dealing
darkness and the destruction of another
metropolitan commercial when the director
storming the beaches...
storming the beaches of my normandy
leaving lasting impressions
like a dorothy-whirlwind
taking wichita with it.
give me that clear-cut
instead of these poppy-induced
speak to me and conflicts
erupt over synaptic boundries
like world wars,
amassing their armies
at the front line.
three words burning like
napalm on metropolis canopies
with the beaches of my normandy
reflecting photon emissions
on the solar winds of love.
the brillant blast deafens
the world and yet the silence
is never replaced, just
white noise in the background
humming vacuum-death dirges
for fallen souls and victims
of love's combative tactics.
ammunition for the heart,
or, more like the ego for some
when emotions are measured in
forced to constantly hear,
'my bomb's better than yours.'
she is the one, that revealing
radioactive pulse pulling
me into her loving embrace,
a place i've never been
and suddenly i can't feel my hands.