Ignite

Disclaimer: This is a work of metaphor. I do not support or condone warfare or terrorism in any form, government sanctioned or otherwise.

I
(Prelude : Judgment)

I crush the world beneath booted feet,
and hold your souls between my teeth
while the sands of millennia run
through my fingers, down an ever-
tightening spiral towards the realization
that but for the blink of an eye,

you were nothing,
and we are gone.

You cannot find me in the places I go,
into a backward ticking clock
striking the eleventh hour.

Time to go.

Time to flow down into this endless
incandescent dance,
where from bombs bloom grotesque
dripping flowers, madness creeping
in through the cracks in Hell’s walls;
and from the bones of children
buried in concrete springs a hatred
that has festered and grown
in the nothingness
behind these thousand thousand eyes.

The shroud will draw tight,
close like a rancid lover,
and all of this will be forgotten.


II
(Mad Machine)

Wake up.
Get your suit and tie.
You’ll be late.
Today’s the last day for handouts,
the last slice of the pie,
the last dollar dollar bill.
Only a few more plastic lives left
in this Play-dough Factory Death-house.

Saddle up,
strap in,

time to begin the destination
,and end the eternal journey.
Choose our weapon,
grab your crutch
and make the final hobbled leap,
the final click,
the truly final fix.

But really . . .
I don’t think you realize
just quite where you are
or where I am going to take you.

One squeeze
to expand your mind forever,
all the things you’ll ever buy
and sell out
and buy again,
delivered in the deafening explosion

of instant
and lethal gratification.

These are the illusions
you’ve bidded your soul for.
These are the lies that sustain
your hardening arteries,
your decaying synapses.
This is the noise
that covers your voice,
the suture that blinds your eyes,
the morphine that enslaves your will.

This is the heritage
of grunting ancestry
digging into the dust of dreams
with knotted clubs,
wallowing in the offal of history.

Wake up,
strap in.
One squeeze is
the noise,
the lies,
the illusion . . .
noise
lies noise
illusion lies
illusion noise
lies
illusion

Sell another piece to the Mad Machine.


III
(This spark is a key soaked in gasoline)

Can you hear me?
This is for you.
Come along.
It is time.

Time to blow this smoldering pile
into flame, to set the spark
against this doused rag
ripped from the Great Colored
Funeral Shrouds of the world.
Time to lance this festering
hatred, to let it spill
out over the edge
of a billion abandoned dreams.
Time to feed the fever,
to cultivate it, let it grow
until it cannot be contained.

Let it burn down the bars of these
green and gold cages.
Let it catch all
who would stand in its way,
for nothing will stop this cleansing.

Wake up.
Scream.
Run.

Throw your bodies at the monster,
at the Mad Machine,
at the leering demon
of your nightmares.
Take up your weapons,
your words, the rubble
and broken glass
of the lives you’ve been left.

I want you to stand up.
I want you to riot,
to march in flames up
to the steps of all
the government buildings of the world,
to throw your burning bodies,
your feverish hatred at the uniformed
Giant standing with one foot
in each ocean, atomic club
clenched in bleeding fists.

Stars, stripes, hammers,
sickles and swastikas,
this is the Golden Age:
two new SUVs in the drive,
kids at summer camp,
and the leaders of the world
slashing their shit-heil globalism
across the throat of the world.

So MARCH motherfucker,
Get on your fucking feet.

Let this war begin.


IV
(Pray that your ears go deaf, that sight abandons you)
We will seed the fields
of your culture with salt,
with the ashes of dreams
ignited in the screaming furnaces
of your Industry.
The fever of disillusion will grow,
spread in streamers of awareness,
outward like the deepest
of your poisoned rivers
as you scatter frantically
to control the conflagration
with your social inoculations.

We will wait
with baited breath
for the rot of renewal
to take hold,
for the gears
to strip and burn
as your lie
collapses around you.

We will tear down
your great towers,
your stinking factories,
bury you with your money
and your bombs
in tombs of stone
planted deep in the earth,
guarded that not even a memory
of you may remain.

One thousand thousand New Creatures
will burst forth
from the forgotten corners
of your world,
from the midst
of your most well oiled machines,
speaking your gibberish,
secretly feeding you
the deathly poison
of stolen words,
conquered language,
liberated vision.

This will be the reward
of your endless lust for blood:
a river of crimson unfathomable
beneath the blackest of skies;
a stinking smoke rising
from the glowing bones
of your funeral pyre,
a message to your impotent gods
and gibbering, dancing power-mongers.

This will be the price of your
cancerous dream : the screams
of revelation from your brainwashed
armies, the decay of all your
worldly power, and the fading realization
that in the great stream of Time
your petulant cries went unheard,
your poisoned legacy forgotten.