Creation

the cold tentacles of a shattered life of
mediocre injustice reaches out
like the serpent of madness that
dwells in the houses of lonely
weekend patrolmen who creep along
side streets and alleyways trying
to slither along until their shift ends

but i am waiting in that darkness they
so cleverly try to avoid
waiting for my moment

fear is the key to survival and i hold the lock in my hand

coldly shouldering the blame of
a thousand wronged nights spent
with the agony of a broken life
spinning toward this one crucial interlude

should the man be allowed to live?

fight in the recesses of the abyss
for the salvation of one frozen soul

good god what have we become?

de-human

cut me and the blood of the world shall pour from the mouths of dogs covering your useless intentions with the cries of intellectual scavengers

help me

it is within these faint glimmers of today's modern age
that we look up to the heavens to find
not the gods of our ancestors
but the junk of our fathers
falling down upon us in a deluge of sorrow

yes, de-human
defunct
destroyed
defined as new prophets
running in the streets burning society as we sleep
for in the fires of revolution are born the
minds of disgruntled soldiers
who would purge the lands
with a new wave of genocide
and offer this world to those forces
that drive the darkness within us all

darkness reaching out to us
cold tentacles that stroke our
shadowed libido
and bring us to this point-
explicit words designed to make us feel
special
so that we may masturbate our minds
until the orgasm of an idea spurts
onto the paper before me

put the key in the lock
put the key in the lock
put the key in the lock
put the key in the lock
put the key in the lock