Page Five

The affair of the poisons dragged on,
In the chambre ardent, the burning court,
Momus, Son of Night, finder of faults with tongue
Sharpened in sanctioned grumble,
Refining tautology from the Hellhole Lodge to the Dead ‘n Breakfast,
With Lady Page Quickly wearing shades in the deranged Arcade,
Long hair braided in two nooses, trickitty blist of Althanor,
A moral/philosophical alchemy recorded via dermography;
And all the people with writing on their skin
Were kept in a place known as Library Prison
Where manger creatures and inn beasts visit with news
From the Arboretum of Oblivion,
The decapitated Santa Clan, and other assorted tortured forms
Of misanthropology: unreal men and never women
With inflatable heads meeting Mister Instinct in the Garbage Garden,
Lord Carnivore writing an electric testament about technical ecstasy for a digital dynasty about perfectly wretched childhood dreams seen by Good God Gold, spoken in puerile susurrus by trickster troopers, wolves with rifles, planning a royal rapestrangle in the magitech maze of monkey monarchs quicker than vampires on varicose veins, armed with weakness and fear, the obsequious twin leeches whispering negative dueling monologues, pitiful approximations of depression dialogs, animal battalions on bone march and skin parade
Celebrating the laughter, the slaughter, and after:
Flesh machine and organ grinder; this place is not as it seems, Fogwater towns of false fronts, pretty facades, pleasant storefronts housing evil trinkets for zombie tourists to eagerly purchase, unwittingly spreading the contagion born of wicked villages, extending the dark crossroads for the ugly things,
Growing the places of perverse convergences,
Disguised as slices of temporal paradise
In a labyrinthine masquerade-
The cat’s eyes are tracking the unseen things,
But swirling chill darts around them,
So they guess it must be the ghosts again,
Lazy navel-gazing player, smug with the drugged love of self,
Drunk on a junket jubilee, multiple swan dive from crescent Heights into a golden ocean, slice and splash,
Plunging into the old true green blue water zoo,
Caught in a hurricane slingshot of turbulent circumstance,
A tornado dancing through a crowded ballroom
Of quick insistent incidents,
Humanity’s social tumble of divergent viewpoints:
Interacting, colliding, obstructing, turmoil of ideas,
Convictions of thinking smack and splatter on a lofty bulwark
of unyielding reason, beliefs, axioms, opinions, and bull$#! t, persistent unwavering righteousness, flammable resentments,
Need and a wanting screaming longing for more, more, and a lot more; in manageable jungles long petals of bark bloomed,
Splayed slow opening, revealing pages hidden in the trees,
Trenches of elliptical diction, pushed deep into dung’s dungeon
Among a pile of burned out enlightenment bulbs,
Clowns and bounders feeding on wastelands,
Taking triple kill pills under a lynchwillow,
Feeling the harsh caresses of giggling thrills surrounding them, constricting with unwavering gazes in those places where fears scarred them from lives they would have lived if they had given
Mere trifles of courage a chance,
Paraffin puppies melting on a hot day in the big top
At the Circus of the Perpetual Insane,
Evading the Scary-Go-Round,
Remembering the dilating cauldron of simple cannibals,
Where mirror parrots & soldier children
Pretend to know the ways
Of Ultraking Prime Master Mover #1 and The Meta-Enemy,
Face cage prisoners, crows hopping in snow,
Pecking away chunks from frozen toes,
Lucky rodents trapped in heavy game
Amid demolished stars,
Playing debaseball in a stadium of tedium,
Conjuring fountains of pretentious twaddle,
A pack of rabid spider-monkeys
Scampering up tall stone walls,
Through webbed rafters of a fractured chapel,
Running an epiphany program with an indignity engine,
Near one wee pink glove on a cold wet concrete slab,
Pulling the strand that unravels the world...

by B. Sven Telander

Comments (6)

i like to go from poem to poem to strictly convey each of the messages in the wriiteen formula. i think this poem is overated to which the person hasnt seen true death until theyve seen an orgy with half miggets pass out and choke on therre vomit, this is true death and loss in that when you the dead bodies all the buzz is gone and you cant tell if you had a good time or not. plus police usually check dead bodies for in an orgy so everyone goes to jail
i like to read this sort of poetry it's good to see someone like myself that has been brutally raped by a dog and has the guts to still express their deep depression and fetishes i sometimes wish i wasn't raped by a whippet but i am proud that it has made me into the person i am today much from me in your sexually orientations inl ife cher.
don't insalt greatness
long though
.........a fabulous poem, words cannot do this poem justice ★
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