Telephone Our Insomniac God

What use is it to sleep?
Beat the clock
hear the cock
early in the morning.
Dawn is breaking loose
and its rosy fingers
have a chokehold on the necks
of the men that travel
to sit before a machine.
the machine sits to be clacked,
resting on miscellaneous desks
waiting for finger pecks
and rat clicks.
Do not sit in front of this
machine.
Do not let Dawn take your
breath
so forcefully.
The strings vibrate in their
place
to let the sounds of the world
slither out onto dirty city
air. Crisp, stinging air.
the boy exploring his soul
is chock full of heroin
and sorrow because he allowed
no other man’s shackles to clasp
around his bony wrists.
And the men by
the machines sigh death.

Dawn, you have forgotten how
to kiss.
Now the train screeches past
and the dust is black,
the stars unreachable and
invisible.

Dawn, you dirty whore.
You mark the waking of the world
when you know we should
remain in slumber.
these fleshy suits shamble
in a coma that allows steps,
foot by foot pitter-patters.
the suits are empty of reason.
No, not empty.
For liberation can be learned
as slavery is.
But the fire in hearts is diminished
only a spark remains
hoping to be fanned
incendiary!
The fleshy suits we occupy
seem to be the only truth they know,
but
I see the truth.

I have cyclops vision
Tunnel vision
and it leads to the cosmos
where i know my brain is
part of the Father.
We are enslaved by the
chains we craft and adorn
like jewels against skin.
Radiance is meek
by nature.

This blood is real
for the machines ask for libations
of wine from your own blue
rivers.

What use is it to dream?
None at all.
But my pillow is a chord and cup
to Space! My Father speaks
through that string
and in the enormous distance
his voice is of
Thunder!

What use is it to live so comatose?
Divine euthanasia take your
toll.
The boy with dirty cheeks
pumped up veins
and long fingers
weeps with his guitar.
Weeps.
For he is alive in a dead country.

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