Monsters' Montage

Pass the roach
clear the vault
fill the script,
dexe-dreams approach

Scrawl sonic figure 8s
on the cave-wall horizon
of your interior landscape

Soon, you'll be flying over
a city of the now:
veering for bats,
watching for black cats

The pink-moon fever
is on you now,
on us now,
and it won't let go
anyway
anyhow,
even if you wanted it to...

The beat-monk trick
is seeing pristine aqua-marine
in gasoline blue...
keeping Eden locked deep back,
safely out of the mind's eye:
with hypomanic 'blue hills,'
curvaceous blonde psych majors,
and blue-dolphin ecstacy pills
at those university poetry readings...
where none of these will crash
on the lights
at the wrong time,

unleashing the sharp-fanged rays of Ra
on the upper Tartarus miniature Townhouse
you call
your 'pinioned castle,'
your 'literary cactus garden,'
your 'personal asylum,'
your opioid-enchanted vertiglow dark-rooms:
where the mellow red illumination
of the lazy midnight salt lamp
melds with the blue-light muses
of the television demon-god
and the sex-sizzling lap-top vortex:

the gate to heaven and hell,
the line to Orpheus, Apollo, Lucifer,
Jehova, Ganesh, Kerouac and Kali,
Ginsberg, Elliott's melodic ghost,
Ray Charles, Buddy Holly and Molloch,
Marilyn Monroe, Hansen,
"The Dope Show with Mr. Marilyn Manson..."

And everywhere
the links go
are nervous sub-social menageries
of "mechanical animals,"
leaving their provincial burgher nests
to fly into cyber-space unmothered
for the first time
with art, love, light, lust or Money
aflame on their minds
and fear-taut wing-tips

We were much like them once.
They'll enjoy the palace we built
on the land we bled for:
the freedom from the data Bastille,
democracy in the shape
of truth, progress and anarchy...
 
and not just statuesque in mythology:
liberty's torch pulsing in propaganda
before the movies
but waving police batons
at the ticket booth...

Home-spun rebel homilies clogging
the Greek columned halls of Congress
while Romanesque censors
sculpt and sanitize
virtually every source, medium,
beat, and surface of the news...
an old and sordid tradition
of long, proud voting lines,
firing endless rounds
of toothless and knowledge-blank shots
into the winding political-battle machines
to rattle about the passages and wind-chambers,
bouncing off psychotic smiling robots,
commerce Panzers,
and concrete-bulwarked committees...

'Liberty,' 'Populism,' and 'Constitution'
being(in America's nightmare ghost-land,)
but three iron-masked political prisoners
in a guiltily-furnished catacombs dungeon,
beneath the vaunted White Olympus Mausoleum:
"the big big House,"
from which they theatrically show
us billions the pre-polished 'power plays'
of war and peace, drones and scandal bones,
operatic sanctions and extortions, etc.,

and in myriad sordid ways
they push back against the rising tide
of free and learned human choice,
daily bread and fair prosperity,
and the interactive e-portals
that have shaken
the old tyrannies and started
to make such egalitarian dreams
again conceivable

Yes, it does seem
at times
that men are not quite so hollow anymore:
that the dark age is fading,
and the frozen wastelands
are thawing in throes of new renaissance:
heated by a new age's manias
and the fiery irrigation lines
of the vast, fast world-wide-web

But this is a twilight stage,
not a golden age;
The Angel Anarchica
will dance again soon
with new souls
to new drug-sparked tunes,
and new literati
will strew their semantic glitter
on libraries, Marti Gras queens,
and lust-lit rebel teens

I wonder if I'll persist
to see such scenes