Invocation of Athena
Broken grandfather clocks
toll the bell of the disgraced Goddess
holding aloft a Flame that She is
ashamed to peer through.
She pretends that she doesn’t know
what Uncle Sam does to her daughter,
the choir boys.
The half staff that swan songs
a collaterally damaged record.
Unsung soliloquy in Her Heart,
too Opaque for condition.
Too soothspoke for recess.
but so… Elegant
in her Ignominy Sacred.
Hallowing the holy fields
where killer angels
pejorative legitimate targets
painted as ascendant
chameleon lasers that
savor the sport and hunt
Witness me, Liberty.
Taste me your own Grace,
drink me your own Beauty,
dine me your own
deathless doorbells that
ordain your Destiny.
Rewind me your alarm clock
cacophonous the tortured
exile you danse as shots of
Take me back your womb,
your objectively permanent adolescence,
your sensorimotor peek-a-boo,
your pre-operational proselytizing.
Your concrete copper calves
that Stand as a testament
to your consecrated constitution.
Your formal courtship that you’re
too polite to ask for.
Your terminal mosh pit that
the system’s too fragile to frolic in
as the purple haze pedestal
on which tempted trophies are
attached is shaken through
porous walls that fall the stimulated
poverty your heretics institutionalize.
Give me your Heart.
your huddled masses.
Breathe me free your wretched
refuse of these, your teeming shores.
Shoulder me faithfully,
knee me the nonbeliever,
headbutt me the heretic,
frown through me as you
jab and kill.
Parry me, my hands
loath and cold,
Let us sleep now.
Catatonic catacombs echo the bones
upon which are inscribed the absolute truth.
Root for the celebrity,
but salute the enemy.
March in formation,
but demand recitation
of the Omertà sworn in secrecy
but peripherally peer reviewed.
Allude to the axiom
you pretend not to know.
The autonomous interlude of
neo-Newtonian ideological operation
snorts the processed bones of
peculiar pests just before the next bound.
Surgical in your solemn surrender…
or lack thereof.
Under and before the call of duty
the temperature is measured in Fahrenheit,
Celsius and Kelvin as coded crypts
listen in on words I never said.
Dread the Monet paintings you pretend to admire.
Mask me your message unmemorized
and interrogated from this shell.
Oh, Belle, would you be mine?
Propose her your prophecies
too persistent to be permitted.
Burn these shadows
in your order antecedent.
no poisoned chalice of malice
as moist as the choice between cold causeways
and diving headfirst into oceans of fire
that Parisian choirs seditiously praise
through invisible curtains that
click, roar and catcall.
The Sacred Feminine beaten,
dragged and raped through
the electronic ticking and tocking
of the global clock.
No more wanting:
It does not matter how tired you are!
It does not matter how happy you are!
It does not matter how split-second
temporal registry hangs heads,
streets, whole cities as lowly as squatter’s rights.
Rage with the undying of the night!
Biological corruption opens, closes
and reopens the local zoo as any
local patrons are sent to coventry,
brigands and broads both.
Broadway is dark tonight.
Binding the love of a country
that made man and woman both
from a spear, a rib, a spinal column,
an extraterrestrial gesticulation of the primal prowess
that unmasks only the worthy,
only the mute,
only the chosen.
The love of colony
that made xenophilic acidic ants
hiss the Prison of Nantes interstellar
to impregnated sacrifices to the Tao
without quid pro quo through corridors
that echo evanescent the celestial void.
The phantom pains that coincide with each
ride or die chorus, verse, and bridge
over-encumbered with fleeing burghers
that murder each other when the street
is overburdened with toxicity,
forgotten as military necessity.
Recalled as a suburban deluge of mini-mall
sanctuaries barricaded as bayoneted zipliners
get up with the sickness.
Witness me, Mystery.
Phallic imagery triggers telepathic static
across the relative infrastructure
of Westphalian incest gone internecine.
The Feminine Chalice lures the child molesters,
the rapists, the school shooters
into autonomous sensory meridian response
echolocation that drops dimes, quarters and halves
as quickly as it’s typed.
Staff the tranquility of the transferent reincarnation
that Beethoven’s Danse Macabre
dragon king tunes may codify ancient voices
into solitaire sonatas that bonsoir
only the most callous of hearts
Good luck and good night.
Architecture tactfully crafted
as lullabies are sung to sleeping samurai
whose shogun naps off the temporal taxation
as a hissing lotus interred in the sensory deprivation
of the Sacrificial Temptation of the Void.
Awake, asleep, fleet as the silent run
that sung to the hunters,
killers and banana boats alike
who were revoked of their S.O.S.
in the name of command responsibility:
the one true standard of officership.
You will follow your orders or
your orders will follow you.
drink you as Code Red Mountain Dew
for the cover you blew.
The skin you shed,
the stale bread you
washed down with poor mead.
Greed is not good:
welcome to the choke point.
no pseudoscientific irreverence
of zombie doctors who stumbled
over armed collegiate barricades that
stood, stand and will stand tall…
even if they fell, fall or will fall.
The day they get you is gone, boy.
and you’re gone with it.
Winding through the claustrophobic
cyclone of unrecalled carnage.
The muzzle flashes,
that consumed the metropolis
as slow dancers in a burning room
that replicate to beacons of Liberty,
Justice and Sovereignty.
Dope pumps through the veins
of those that mansplain the lesbian
difference between chauvinist pedophilia
and Greco-Roman sexual knowledge of Confucian Self,
Virtue, and Guardianship of the Polis.
Go cry about it,
why don’t you?
We’re here to hurt you,
Immerse you in tongues that
you don’t know you can speak.
Utter any word save for mercy,
Her Voice that Speaks as running for re-ignition
of the ancient Flame that Consumed by
urban inferno whole city-states, countries, empires.
Sires and Madams,
scream Her Name
as they pluck your angel wings
feather by feather,
laughter Her Letters as they
seek your flesh by feeding frenzy,
smile Her Similitude as she Sings
your excruciating lullaby
as a collectively unconscious Whisper
the Fidelity of which is real, authentic, true:
whether you believe it or not.
We don’t die,
We don’t lie,
We don’t why,
We don’t testify,
Witness me, Athena.