Compulsion

 
 
 
Adhesion slips from this decayed age.   
Attraction defense.  Descent into
consensual reality’s unmeetable demands,
measurements.
 
Choose to negate choice that never completes. 
Degradation.  Devil’s compromise.
But, like suicide, a mortal sin, unspeakable
to give in to cringe temptation. 
How can I explain?  One whiff and existence
as advertised in dayplanner delineation
loses all continuity, protection from chaos, impossible
to pick up such raveled stitch.
 
Lords of violence, long conjured into subjugate fear. 
Pimping for Jehovah?  Sneer for the big screen. 
We learn to hate from what attacks every day.
Contractual imprisonment to stave off temptation.
I elect representation, prescient shadows, to pay my penance,
ritually claim my remorse.
Power invoked agent to promote my protestation.
 
Rats, spiders, assorted starving vermin,
semi-feral humans, scrabble through waste,
stagnant remnants of rain and opulence, to no good end. 
Children grow consuming what is available, what is given
or remains.  Raised as zombies — no minds worth saving,
subsisting on dead flesh and legendary hellfire.  How can
better angels befriend?
 
After eternal interrogations, assigned the designation “sapien.”
Simple, mundane sensuality.
Slimy tears
dissolve eye grit;
sore structural muscles
ease into ambient flutter.
 
This peculiar Hades Bohemia
reflects jewel facets, bioluminescent charms. 
Too bad those chained to arms, deprived
of what skin can claim to feel fulfilled,
seek release in arms defined by “kill or be killed”.
 
Why should death’s mystery entice
so much more than life’s?  Not best of men survive
time’s inflammatory trial. 
Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed,
all against every?  Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?
 
It may well be about working toward epiphany. 
 
Yet, possibilities inherent in human seed
grown in potent mixtures
(tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures,
intricate captivating lulls) for acculturation,
confound imagination.
Long walks that suddenly awaken questioning: 
“Where am I going?  Who is this “me” that has destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?” 
Wandering devolves to slumber. 
No one to remember,
holding on to random sensory familiarity.  Don’t trust the mirror. 
Wizened eyes have looked too far.  They love to lie,
lazy, wistful —
if wishes could be more than these fantasies,
murals tied to greasy walls, lurid call of loons.
Self-made runes signal danger.
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