|
Prometheus Again
Strange stardust
Coursing through my veins
Delirium blackhole infinite
of cotton are these chains.
Not transcendental
Or holy or malign
just dry sliced truth
There is nothing divine.
These chemic cosmicites
play centrifuges in the blood
Splitting the magic from the mundane and
the gold from the flood.
Binary blatancy
The lone cold fact
Dead dust will we be,
Not spirits abstract.
Alive but once
Just once and just once
Owe nothing to the scowling hags
or the brass tops and tyrannists
with their bloodshot black flags.
A bullet in my head
A syringe in my vein
“No”, “Not right”
My life, my right
Ill do it and ill do it again.
I am an artist.
An artistI say.
Indulge me, you bastards.
Indulge in my way.
|