The Heroisch Assassin

November 17, 2010
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The minds of my generation starve for validity
Dressed to the teeth to fill themselves with depravity
To continue their myopic life under onerous skies
To breathe they bury themselves alive

Under hallucination pain they come home, deprived
Empty flats and parent-less minds
Quavering in mourning rites for junky freedom

Monsters screaming for the ethereal taste of selfless deceit

Escapists in the snares of superiors with opaque eyes

Burning for the anti-gravity kiss of a stolid mother-angel
To find only an eternity of dissolute marionettes
In myriad morning agonies they dressed again to die
A moribund menagerie, lives so humbly priced

Blue-bloods and plutocrats drink the most saccharine poisons for the taste
Content to be raped by capitol, Lothario of the day
Craze of the age, malice of the mind, chaos at the core, void of our time

Opulent harlots, tightening the noose round the necks of impecunious sycophants
Who quake under orgasmic asphyxiation pain as they grasp the succubus’ breast,
Pallid as the Hand of God, long since in quietus above

Hedonists descant over witticisms at decadent soirées
And behold in exultation the puling Proletariat’s dismay
As they lead arrivistes into august abattoirs
Affluence their means to an ersatz paradise
Hubristic bastards who bought the Garden of Eden from the Late Mendacious Master
Who deigned to speak of the proverbial camel and the impassable needle

Makes me wonder: to define truth, on whom do we rely?
Our minds? Our gods, complex, forthright, philistine?
Reality and fable incessantly intertwined

Peccant eremites seek with one hand clemency from the Holiest cadavre
And with the other the hypodermic syringe carved of His glass eyes
That so divides light into psychotomimetic colors
And perfect truths into sundry lies
That suffuse into an ephemeral Elysium, the ultimate high
Sanctum sanctorum of the mind
Reachable through naught but the needle’s eye

Iridic bevy of wolfish, deathly gentle rainbows in an iridescent empyrean
Whence the lies coalesce into perfect truths, rid of their whilom impalpability
Whence one drinks the nectar of the mother-angel’s sundered breast
Seemly, seemingly salubrious
Lily-white lane to Limbo, walked by its sightless maker
Who looked not back at the world when he did forsake her

For those sybarites whose pockets are deeper
Than chasm of the mouth of the snake that the world really is in the end
The hands of the clock are moving by my hands
I’ll beat that dead bastard above to the punch
And send them hell-for-leather to whatever lies beyond

And for all those mongrels who are their own ambrosia
I’ll spare them from rendering their guns unloaded
And slice them apace before they can be nipped in the bud

Then again my proclivity’s common to theirs
The pulchritudinous poppy arouses a heart-breaking fondness in me
Like a child who’s swallowed a falling star

I suppose I’m the very thing that I so loathe
So I’ll part from this world with my betrothed

I watch as the needle dives into my protoplasmic sea
Doomed to drown, its eye forever in me

Just knowing that I am to die serves as a placebo
It seems serendipity defines me after all
The sublime poppy-child poured my weary veins a shot of its brew
Before I’ve fallen, the nectar will endue me with truth

Overhead at a distance that I can’t discern
There’s a kiss of metals, a dogfight is over
A plane takes a crescentic dive in the air
Like the puerile swallow seeking its share
Leaving a falcate arc of effulgent smoke
Like the wise, infirm artist’s penultimate stroke
When then its ruin is smote upon the page
And it gravitates, aseptic, into its stain
To me I see the smooth cut of surgical blade,
So swift and precise that it comforts me


All the sound in the distance becomes a ballad of calm
Sleep grasps at me with its phantasmic fingers
And I pass from this world without a sound
Embosoming the truth that I have found

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