David Estringel

And the Beat Goes On

Dropping from the air 
upon ears like paper blotters on willing tongues,
raging at the bloodlessness of cardboard cutouts
against a shrinking sky,
through psychedelic lenses
let me seeeee, let me beeeee the pulse of silent rage
that rails against the vulgar machine with words
that organize, legitimize, minimize, super-size, tranquilize,
proselytize, tantalize, infantilize, sexualize, stigmatize
the suckled teats of long-conditioned truths.

Poking the bear, disturbing the seas of featureless beige,
stirring the comatose anima with battle-cries of sight and sound
that pierce dusty eardrums like sterling icepicks,
repressed wants teeeeem, solemn faces beeeeeam,
liberated in the warmth of a sun that breaks just beyond
the horizon on coffee-house stages, rousing thoughts
to gestate, ruminate, conjugate, propriate, sublimate, fornicate,
obliterate, determinate, propagate, exfoliate dangerous visions,
birthed from the unfetteredness of a purple haze. 

Fueling the scribblings of furious hands upon white sheets
with whisky and cigarettes,
Making, naked, ugly underbellies of the angst-ridden and inflamed
with the glorious promises of their ecstatic treasure-trails,
let’s revel in the coolness of poetry’s heeeeeat,
indulged in pollen-dusted skin so sweeeeet
within the honeyed tangles of poets’ asymmetries
to detoxify, dulcify, intensify, demystify, purify, glorify, magnify,
beautify, electrify, sanctify our bodily streams of light
that sugar lips and candy fingertips.

Tearing away at the fabric, unraveling,
woven from Gloopstick youth and plasticine smiles,
repulsing at the hordes in their mindless quests
for extra-flavor and double-coupon days,
looking for a steeeeeal, wanting to feeeeel,
as hollow dollars crumble to coins when plopped upon
unsated palms and countertops.

Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! 
We are on the brink 
of the Fall of the American Empire. 
Dig.

*

Originally published at littledeathlit