They Made Him Out of Tin
Stampeding saharas break off mid-gallop, half-eaten brakes applied to hydraulicism as altogether they stain the rivers sanguine with inky fingers
vacuumed velvet black as that final star who lingers, straining to be heard on distant District Lines, before being swallowed up by the laconicism that night is.
Sated, we witness huddling, pack instincts, diagnosable behaviour in split shifts as soggy spliffs are passed in primordial panic, errant smoke bellowing from these once titans of tomorrow who bray in bouts of condoned bestiality and hoover up gorilla barbiturates.
A small stench of hybrid hair matted on brass breastplates that gleamed with godlessness not long ago lays into the soft flesh around your nostrils, pugilism red in tooth and sure enough it hemorrhages into the vascular mesh of hairless faces, crumpled blobs of misshapen aluminium that copulate in corporeal bliss
where cool metallic tastes of blood are far from welcome but are made ruinous by hooves and horns and tiaras of thorns that stem the spout of savagery and seethe with its promise that degradation will replace stigma,
sending it sprawling and airbrushed into pandemonium where devils don’t dance because they are not themselves in the mind of the beast.
Heathens rut in prayer, gulping sacks of stale air after being consumed in adamantium chrysali that obscured the vivid carvings of the moon from their sight.
Egg-white eyes that recede like tsunami seabeds brimming with petroleum promises of gods garbed as men that ejaculate yearn after yearn after gurn until pure heroin finally comes to those denied of it for lack of dexterity,
the eyes white as polished teeth but tinged with violent hypertrophy threatening to puncture jagged messes into each and every one of our preconceptions.
Oilskin drums frame the rhythm of slathering chaos that nullifies all color, all vivid abstraction, except for the white eyes receding and bleeding broken benevolence that was destined to be broken, and as drunken hooves clamor and rank breaths mingle with soft flesh they push the sky apart for the nectar of the fix.
The Second Coming.
Mouths run dry with words. Californian Plague and Salafist Severity run and hide under leafless trees that leave them howling for dreams that were put on hold, desperate to chameleon their own image and pray that their presence won’t bring down the structures impeding our euphoric mundanity, as though
Each and every one of us will bear him and bind him in fibreglass.
Gansu stammers and stops mid-sentence, trailing metal and men and tortuous purgatory from his bleeding gums like a Fungal Capstan before drinking death to drown his sorrows.
Volcanoes lid themselves, and as we squat waist deep in arbitrary apocalypse, ingesting amyl nitrite and turning blue as noiseless birds, time salutes, juiced to the gills like child soldiers marching on cartilage and singing shanties of untasteable life.
Clitter-clop…clitter-clop, our hooves go, tinkering like droplets of fat rain on her breast, her intimacy quelled with a clickety-clack and a clickety clickety-clack as the beats of marginalised thunder atomised and torn asunder under the weight of fathomless hordes that clatter and blunder as they get closer and clatter and they clatter and they reek of mechanised insatiability-
It is only now, whilst the avian shriek of the Magi sets her senses on fire, that I see Him lit up like Broadway in her orbs.
Men bark and bite and break the skin to shield him with their vulturous wings from exposure to the Sun, and the beating of those drums, surrogating Spartan-slaughtered infants, the Nothings, the Noughts and festooning him with an ocean of mouths once more. Under the carnivorous lens of history he raises a tiny fist to clockwork recessive genocide and man-made defilers, absolving us of our beastliness by unfastening our hooves while he holds our gaze, for that is what we really crave...a touch, that collapses us into catatonia like Soviet smilers.
Amongst voracious flattery and futures of flowers,
Snippets of citrus wine to idle away the hours
The gods reach down to beasts, because it is not too late
For transcendence to slowly transubstantiate.
But if you could only fathom how far we’ve fallen to secure this fate
Through tautologies of jubilance we churn out a tear
Until the fine film at the hinge of your eyelid begins to wear
And recede, into a gluttonous need
For an explanation of what we’re doing here.
The curule chair sits erect, embedded, enshrined,
His name emblazoned into our eyes.
The drugs do work; we’re too far gone
The falconer cannot hear the falcon.
© Jonathan Chapman, 2014