Monday, December 7, 2015


Jesse S. Mitchell

The mosquitoes are buzzing, the fire breathing dragons, some blood lust on the lips,
the signal is flickering, codeeating the static.
And all the monster heads, legionnaires, that chatter away Enochian, the language of angels, while the flames rise high.
The double domed head of St. Paul’s mushroomed erection eruption coming up from beneath the city street mud. Because disaster is destruction and destruction is double entendre.  We euphemistically stare.
The long pre-Cambrian  spider legs, spindly suspended for minutes and minutes, frozen in shiver in the cold of the corner.
And while all the dust settles the moonburned ash collects into hours, momentarily, summarily, forever and forever because bullets are morphine, acetylene the torches that weld the war-flesh-aphrodisiac all webbed together.            

No comments:

Post a Comment