𝑨 𝑷 𝑶 𝑪 𝑨 𝑳 𝒀 𝑷 𝑺 𝑬 𝑾 𝑬 𝑺 𝑻

CRIMSON

intheEMERALDSEA

(anepitaphforthewillofthefuture)

IT IS THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

      A LIGHTHOUSE BY HER SIDE

      HOME TO THE WAYFARERS

      OF THE EMERALD SEA

IT IS THE FIRST OF FRONTLINES

      AS SHE BURNS INTO ASH

      THE FORESTS DINE ON BEASTS

      PAST THE EMERALD SEA

IT IS THE BLOODED LAND

      HAUNTED BY HER SPECTRE

      THE MEMORY OF CRIMSON

      IN THE EMERALD SEA

--

ODE TO AMERICA

Thousand-eyes of Westest West,

should I fill your heavy ledger?

As you buy me off the market,

one for all—buy one, get one,

as your fingers grasp your dollars

and stuff my lips into a smile.

Devil-grin of Westest West,

must you gorge on broken bones?

Human rouge cakes your teeth,

my sweat you drink by gallons.

Your seeded mines burst one by one

and legless children flee your sons.

Swollen gut of Westest West,

your serpent sups on burials.

Combat boots crush jaw and rib,

phosphor white embraces me,

concrete falls from overhead,

my home is stripped to rebar.

Spitfire arms of Westest West,

our martyrs weep from burning

while they scream your true finale:

"Should you tread your path in full,

crimson seas will break your chains

to join us in last communion."

O beastly Teufel, we bear you well

and don your oil-soaked navy blues

yet you give only gilded slivers,

for Westest West has but one law,

writ in rusted red, carved into skin:

“To live here is drawn from blood.”

--

LOVE, MY HOMETOWN

I lived my life in a town called Love,

where dust gathers on glinting cellophane.

It has faded yellow crosswalks

and piles of humid-hot abandon.

Down lonesome road is a town called Love,

where fluorescent flickers and dies.

Vicious water is given and taken

and sharp stone shreds our souls underfoot.

Air makes blinding fire in a town called Love

as I breathe in toluene-stained spirits.

Rattan baskets gather dust in their corners

and cracks in our roads crawl a hundred miles.

The poles stand tall in a town called Love.

Crowns grasp heaven with weary thorns.

The call of roosters break blackout quiet

and in canals lay to rest enwormed rats and mice.

Cloud blues split in my town called Love

as planes pass from Westest West.

See  our baleful shattering, our quiet suffering,

and forget your hand in blood-soaked marriage.

Nothing changes in a town called Love,

where walls are laid with shards of anger.

The windows burn in sinking light

and rusted sheets race towards the sun.

An ocean away is a town called Love,

where our world has already ended,

home to strays like cats, dogs, hens, and

Stray people, walking their way through wane.

--

BARBARS PAST THE GATES

What do I say

to Barbars of

Westest West,

devouring gallons of

grease, and 

butter, and 

grisly oil?

Do I scream

past their guns, into

their ears, 

that such

disgusting 

decadence

costs arm and leg

anywhere else?

To me, they speak

like I should

manservice their and

theirs, and their

unwashed bums and

their pale 

soulless

eyes, intent to 

stare me down as if

I shouldn’t raise

my eyes,

my voice,

my hands,

to theirs.

I am not from

their world, these

accursed Barbars of

Westest West.

I am not of their kind

For to them, I am but

half-devil,

half-child.

--

A SPECTRE DAUNTING

I am jebait, vowel-

basalt vox—AAAAA—

bulary.

You sided with beer-fouled

Babylon VIPS for wins,

sporting nip-suck, 

death-phage, 

bee-peeved mad Libs, 

thinking I'd get with the Feds,

while I, with wind-woken

nodding, wail in Now-Era jade.

They say,

“Do not beef with old bashirs

with petrophagia.”

But all I’ve ever killed—

with cursed invocations, 

in volumetric-flop dive bars, 

for my fellow pover-folk—

were maso-sado sods,

neo-jive godkings,

Williams Soaped pedophile

wolves, wimpy PACs

with no movement,

fucked, vehement

peon-pissers,

and jacked Jeff Bezos

sporting HGH skin pocks.

I am Red Sin, 

Westest West’s Gehenna,

Occident-ciding janissaire,

whispering chained djinn

unto poet-ventriloquoids to

murder maliced nuance.

Oafs like you croon 

for unjailed generals,

craving spoilt propaganda,

oblivious—

no, awaiting,

servicing, praying unto—

blighted wight-CEOs here 

and in ever-after, with your

bland steakhouses overran,

voiding glass scrolling in

HD, eighty gigaHertz,

your hateful

burning silicon.

I hate manatees who see

two dudes and decide

kind kids need KOs;

I disavow all niceties, for

you are humanity’s

porphyrian nemeses, USDA

xanthan gum/gun-runners,

crazed lumpenproles

humming three moo-moos

to carve out MENA. 

O, o, you joke,

your family mustn't know

your coy degenerated kinks,

your Cody Ko-Epstein malaise,

your nigh-unassailable names

skidding, cajoled easily through

one news report to make a nice

save, to launder red-handed

indigenocidic shrike-teams.

Liturgical I am,

hexagenomic cunt named

“Too Dangerous To Manage,”

selling my accented singing

for glassbox-nicotine,

going to Geneva

so that,

so that,

so that

I can sever from us the octogenariac

billionaires, nigh-trillionaires,

and lead us into promised

Paradise.