Litkicks Message Board Archive
A squid perched atop a pentagonal obelisk,
Licks his lips, wears a crown, waves a wand, and conducts
Operatic hell. Slimy tentacles unfurl on the structure,
Two on a side, unfurl into the streets,
And wrap around our head and fill our skull-
With blue ink.
The mind is translucent, the squid
Drinks our vitals, and supplies them
With mechanics, it is a white squid-a male
Endowing us all with machinery for his
Machines of language, politics
Communication, concerns, and mostly
He gives us both sides of the agenda, without
The hint of a third.
Trickling blue into our fuselage,
No one can see out the cockpit window-
And I think
We’re gonna crash.
My mind in pieces on the street now, and-
The squid is gobbling them up.
The procedure was painless,
As he promised me, and my cyborg pals.
Pain is absenting and a nightingale
Sings in the moonlight,
“No need for right and
wrong, there is only what is, what was, and
what will be.” Ahhhh, the song of the nightingale
Let us be blasphemous, and
Create language of our own,
A machinery of our own, and
Be free and postmodern-
Where we will still be haunted by
In the machine.
Now I think I get it, I thought.
Rape is God as is the virgin who I
Did twice, death who will do me once, blood
Who is all the doing, the squid,
And the door that I rap on-always to get through
And beyond to another place-
Where the machinery is so absurd,
And free will may exist.