Hydrogen Jukebox
By capoeiragem
- 951 reads
Love hate skates
on frozen fire lakes,
lives with life's longing for
a lone ranger
stranger
danger fruit
banana bends
backwards behind
secret ever longing for
a big brother
mother,
as you're save the earth lover
slips on a pair
of heavily mortgaged shoes,
blue stitched by ships
with tripped out sails,
trace paper angel
pimp postman smiles
on a star-shaped banner
business park window,
the psychogenic fugue
of a forest fire facelift,
gives extreme make-over,
Mogadishu,
post-vaudevillian angst,
a truncated wisdom tooth twist,
and mushrooms hold hands in the twilight
and sing to eachother in the space
that sleeps between their fingers,
because even postmodernists
on strange evenings of self,
go salsa dancing with their confusion
in the backstreets of Paris,
and summer rain sings
in slow-stunted syllables,
and drifts between amplified
autumn heatwave
intervals,
as sour-faced fans set light
to sun-shaped effigies,
dripping with agitation
since the seasons went electric,
meanwhile, in Moloch,
a broken beat seat gap
sits backs against the wall
and watches
as a
thick drenched burning
plastic smoke
folk song
spits golden coins
across a crowded room
like a melodramatic hose,
and small golden discs fall
and fix themselves like napalm
onto long naked eyelashes,
stampede across the ground
like heavy artillery,
and land
in the palm of an outstretched hand,
and burn, like sulphur, right down to the bone.
Quick!
Take that coin,
and throw it back into the machine!
The chink of gold in an empty chamber,
and the whirring of dead discs
behind a broken neon screen,
is the prelude to the madness
of a flashing green light.
So choose your partners carefully,
watch frozen fire lakes break
into a thousand liquid pieces,
and relish the silence that lingers
before the intro kicks in,
for this, the next track that plays
on the hydrogen jukebox.
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