The Pilot Light
I protect the small, white devil because my
stomach is churning,
and burning like a river dragon over-hydrated
by a soluble division.
The sweet-tempered demon nurses my ailment-
he fuses flat ginger ale making a saltine plaster,
a mixture intended to lubricate the infested
intestines of numerous cancer engaging agents.
Beelzebub, my ancient savior, shaves such
infinite barnacles where once blistered walls
became a dung-hill of destruction. The bladder was
timid, corrupted like an internal employer,
while the liver is left to linger (gallant in it’s
destruction), circling a pink interior.
He hides in my pocket, peering from
behind destroyed cotton, posing as salvation
to assist my inevitable invasion. On the brink
of relaxation, my heart sinks in up heaving
motions regurgitating Dr. Watson’s monotonous
prescriptions, tripling my deemed measures, while
pain proceeds to press penetrating my temples,
turning this 387 into an unending Edenic pleasure.
Dead skin cells erupt and crumble like tiled scum, a hint of music echoes
like the bellow of Apollo opposite Attila the Hun.
Now, I sit facing a black tombstone, diffused
with morbid mathematics, where ratios and the supposed
white man’s evils enfold the teacher’s malevolent soul. She crowns
herself a scholar, but remains bundled with ignorance,
I watch as she melts in her microcosm, influencing
mass destruction. Her face corresponds to all the
drones in Capitalistic production where devising
plans for suicide is the seasonal fashion, but her screeching
pitch becomes more enslaving, and with my inattentiveness
I scratch the Vikings itch; therefore, attempting to engulf all three demons.
At this moment I cram my eye sockets tight in an attempt
to remove Nature’s knife, which has become tainted
like silver blackened from grown men immature in their passions,
similar to the Banquet of Alexander VI Chestnut-ing his seaman
into the noose of the harlot’s hanging. In the moment of
Time’s next teaching, I perceive myself a poet, shaking
my head at the sheepish passions malignant amongst the masses
gathering on this plane not acknowledging the senses.
So, my companion, creator, speaker, my professor,
you denounce my acceptance for eternal Constance and
articulate a curious mind. It is through a relentless
struggle where I can deviate from the common man’s
undying vacancies, thus forming a hybrid of two species. Imagine
their life, a cave, becoming black as pupils are
ashed with age, accepting life’s turmoil
as synthetic (although, it is maladjusted, metaphoric
and enraged), unable to value
the notions of Athena or the Phoenix’s flame,
and displayed in the blight of commonality
where I see the stem of violence attained.
Defended by a death-less shelter, where
a piece of mind is guided-
I leave a pilot in my pocket, and a
flame ignited.
