When the mechanized voices are grinning When the mechanized voices are grinning out the milk of human kindness to breast feeding the over endowed society where the children are for sale beneath the hours that run like rabbits from the bee-eye beast of superstition caught in the hands of the elders who drink the needs that we keep secret against a thousand wants buried in the flesh of the city with its sacrificial sky as weak as the last prayers whispered beneath artificial stars Then the fountain of a woman’s weakness will spring forth into the silent and shattered the wisdom of an egg In the milk of human fading dreams the gasoline scented air roam between the breaths discarded by crying children who drink the rain from the air before it hit the pavement made of windows where the river of dead rain runs down the serrated pane of slow liquid glass. In the milk of human tongues that cut like knifes the children of man nickel and dine the worn soul of the moon here is to be found the aluminum excrement of a throw away society that imprison the humming birds in the red color of a coke can. The dead take their silent with them into the grave yard of plastic. In the milk of human insanity the stone mother of the Gods is silenced by the ignorance of the bellowing clacks of fishes swimming toward the divine light of oblivion when the wet earth shoulder the thirst of tenderness and the crying children are trembling in their skin beneath the desert chaotic clear sky of emotional clergymen who wrestle with the angels to pluck their ivory feathers with hands of fiddles that pray for forgiveness of their executive sins committed against the machinery of the church that is built on the edge of the inscription of the holy flowers that arch their backs against the descriptive winds blowing lost prayers toward the difficult anguish of the blueprint of horses galloping toward the astonished sunlight of the university where is taught the dazzling tongue of the blind masses’ needs to belong to the imagined affectionate religious of the Jesuit. In the milk of human possibility money darken the door of the demagogue where the church going termites eat the cross and the atheist ants drink the holy water of a baby’s tear spilled in the baptism basin where is collected the stained teeth of sorrow speechless of blood it exhale the Gothic billboards selling the cement and concrete landscape of the zoo where the trees are speechless in the noisy reality of the mechanical city of the dead rusting red in an hind end.
Posted on: Mon, 19 Jan 2015 00:20:05 +0000
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