I Am Trash Man

The sand will never seep up through the cracked pavement but the gore thickens in it like an algal bloom as I sit upon the column watching swine swipe my kin captured with collar-staffs, thick clouds of poison and spray, seethe gush bang

When it was all first coming asunder I sat too, quiet and gentle and afraid but nurturing a long-mute hatred that billowed up from the deep earth and through my ribcage, out of my pores and nostrils and eyes and mouth, like a deathdealer aerosol decaying cyanide bitter and silent

No zeal left, swallowed in the mire of it all, these panes of light flashing color planes motes of liquid crystal blazing like the future, monitors monitored threatening febrile twitching synthetic corpses blistering in the sun strewn across the cracked deserts of the world, the mother scorned by her most vivacious children ravening hubris held against the mortal screen, the line of day drawing us toward the night of our departure, sapience a brief experiment for the trashbin of history, agonized and pitiful lost in a dead universe gleaming

Blue uniforms torn olive drab sodden blood-caked sidewalks where the flashbangs cracked and the drumbeat halted, gas carried on the breeze coiling lucent like the patriarch’s sun coruscating with the hatred and fear that curdles in the breast of every fucking dimwit patsy that ever prostrated himself before the object of his desire which was always his master’s cock that He hid mutilated and useless

That loathsome-

That is the weight of us who have come from the further plane, to carry our hatred noble and silent and use the glories of our every word to speak structure into being, hands clasped behind our backs eyes clear heart full, remaking dignity in our image because there has never been a dignity worthy of our merit, marked by passion, scything into a vast future

That is what we all imagined, but-

They hoist them up on the collars, set them in concrete and let the bodies peel in the sun, let the organs slough and tumble from distended stomachs picked through by the swarms of chitin that fly endless on the hot wind of a new world

Where were you the day the dead world came back to life, when the pale ghosts of history took back their treasures and we all learned what it was to be cattle, when the gasoline ran out and the world broke the back of the old hegemony, sending the subjects of that longstanding scourge to oblivion, a hell just like that which the ghosts once wrought on their innumerable victims, and so perhaps there was a kind of justice to that, even if it was still the old kind, empty and ill-considered, doused in petroleum spasm

It was then and thus that it descended towards the meltdown once envisioned and the scourge, blue and green and tan stalking through the forests and deserts, peering through plastic masks, seeking escapees

We tried to tell them, carried along the train tracks our ancestors built, tilting towards the furnace and vivisections, vials of blood and cold cameras, they kept the bodies in databases until they burned them or drowned them in the river, lined them up and knocked them down

Petrol used to soak the surface of this land before the sun came for us, shimmering wasted soil all filled with corpses, broken limbs, shattered bones and torn metal, curling plastics and silence, wallets and blood, storm scorn vitriol lashing

Where were you the day we were torn asunder, tumbling into the future and sliding into the past, apotheosis of the ambiguity that has always rested heavy on these electrified craniums, tucked away, out of sight, hovering always behind the back of the head, chariot and requiem, cheap tricks, strapped to the spine, stitched among the ribs, the kernel of catastrophe

Here on the other side, across the gulf of yet another of history’s merciless rendings, my hatred is no longer mute, it has given up trying to remake dignity in its own image, the owl of Minerva is long gone, is never coming back, and I told myself I didn’t care until it was true, there are no more glories and there are no more structures, just that vile zeal

I clutch at the thick wet ropes of my disemboweled friends, I try to take it in, to take the pain in, make it sit with my reason, but it won’t and I  can’t, so I take them in another way, gnashing and gnawing

I bought the gun to put it, too, in my mouth, but in the end I found a better use for it


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s