Head Factory Part I: Contagious Liberation/The Lust Harvest

“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” -Dr. Johnson

 

“Mother, wherever did he go?”

“Turn away from the door, my youngest,

He was swallowed by the starving night.”

 

It’s Friday the 13th now and the moon is bleeding out,

High up in the eternal mass grave of the abyss.

She’s looking down at the world through the hazy lens of recently awakened eyes.

I’m spun out and drunk on a couch with a lovely low-lit flicker from my past beside me.

As she speaks so softly to me, I can’t help but to imagine making adulterous love with her,

She’s wearing murder-red lipstick and making snow angels in white powder lies.

 

Now, bound in chains of discontent, we all descend into a dungeon,

Carved out of glowing rock and torture.

Our invisible shackles are tightened ’til none of us can breathe.

Inside the reflective walls surrounding us, the “Holy Father’s” unconscious,

In piercing shades of bitter addiction on the slowly sinking bedroom floor.

We’re all doomed to live, all in the sacrilegious name of our frozen queen.

Am i now the final speaker who gazes upon his own demise,

Or am I just a steadily rusting tool of my own invention?

 

Misshapen, vile humanoid creatures were dancing–

Slimy brownish spawn of filth rapidly growing and multiplying–

Across my sunken eyeballs, wide open saucers scanning the room and my company like a thirsty killer.

These horrors came swarming from some dimension of fearsome shadows and blazing unnatural light.

Not likely far beyond or forgotten by this dim and dank inferno.

“Can’t you see the wispy fingers of smoke slithering through every crack and crevice?”

The faceless lady smiling in the photograph seems to revel in my insanity.

 

Finally, I overcame the lifelike people I see who aren’t really there.

Nevertheless, they peered at me from behind trees and around corners.

Burning centipedes feasted on my mind that night.

Climbing up dead silk ropes through my skin,

The unspeakably foul others scamper, leap, and cavort all over the pale room.

They scuttle in and out of my hollowed skull, as you soar away from the noises outside.

Sparks shower forth as you open your tireless mouth to scream.

What’s a day or two lost to monsters like us?

What’s another ugly scar to my blind and drowning soul?

Seal up or destroy the countless insects’ tunnels, nests, and burrows.

Brush off this scurrying midnight plague with broken lovers’ hands.

They won’t find us before we disintegrate in the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

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~ by Jesse Stonefield on June 16, 2014.

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