The Tears of Nebuchadnezzar
by Joseph Armstead
Our kings are bedraped in robes of vermin.
The seeds our Forefathers sowed
sprout,
birthing a parade of steel bulls,
metal maniacs driven by psychosis,
loosed from neon cages, pent-up
and escaped from slaughterhouse
concentration camps
before a televised audience,
hypnotized and narcotized
by digitalized imagery
projected in 1080p resolution.
Should you care?
This is the music of stones falling,
pirates and braggarts, swingers and saints,
this is the aria of a homicidal serenade,
the din, the cacophony
of a colossal storm passing...
Like liquid razors, these are the tears
of Nebuchadnezzar.
Children, savage offspring, should you care?
...ants
......in the
.........dust
............screaming
Like gallows' nooses, Babylon's Hanging Gardens
cast shadows of ghosts on hard and rocky soil,
and beneath the Tree of the Prophet, poisoned roots
feed on faithlessness and bitter turmoil.
On Dura's plains was idolatry
portrayed on gigantic scale
and all men commanded to kneel
before wrath and rail,
prey to the demands of Ego,
hubris and betrayal,
some rebelled, fighting back, refusing to blend,
treated as criminals but only acting like men,
into the flames went Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego
but they did not burn in that furnace of woe,
Chosen by Truth, they were shielded from foes.
Prideful of his achievements, unprepared for the fall,
sanity shattered, broken and humbled, left to live like a beast,
lost in the wild for seven long years...
Children, wounded brethren, should you care?
...roaches
......in the
.........walls
............shrieking
Our kings are attired in vestments of refuse.
Mass market production
of Hopelessness distributed,
with amorality and apathy on-tap,
multi-megaton fascism
and
computer pseudo-intelligence
accelerating and feeding
the rot of the Great God Progress
as the crowd dances
to propaganda pop.
Should you care?
This is the music of stones falling,
crusaders, criminals, pornstars and saints,
this is the aria of a homicidal serenade,
the din, the cacophony
of an eternal storm passing...
Like liquid razors, these are the tears
of Nebuchadnezzar.
And, cutting deep, they fall, they fall, they fall...
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Fantasy Warrior Painting" by Innovari (Luca Oleastri), dreamstime_8377254.jpg
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Galileo's Clock, or Time Expressed As Fragments of Broken Gemstones
by Joseph Armstead
Dawn has broken across the horizon
and I am out bathing in its silvery light,
watching a phalanx of geese
fly south as a hot summer blends
into a cool and dim autumn,
recalling this is a season also known as "Fall",
feeling a vague sense of loss
as the weeks of lazy heat give way
to a subdued lengthening twilight
and the lights of the City sparkle
ever more dimly over the park
down the block from my condominium.
The meteor display
from the pre-dawn hours
has faded to a memory
of miracles and mysteries,
streaks of fire
tracing fingers of Infinity
against the background
of quicksilvery metal,
and the Heavens hide
their conspiracy of timelessness
from my tired gaze.
Slow glass melting on a surface of cool mercury...
As the planets slowly turn
like vast gears in some
great celestial machine,
I realize that none of it is the way
I imagined it would be
and my wounds
are still slowly bleeding,
Slowly the planets pass along their orbits
and I can feel something
divine and immortal
gradually leaking out of me.
Slow glass melting on a surface of cool mercury...
When the sun at last comes up,
whole and glaringly white,
unbearably bright,
I see my life as a tray full of jewels
under a broken display case,
gemstones intermingling
with rough shards
of shattered glass,
debris and treasure
mixed into a grab-bag
too sharp-edged to hold
lest it draw blood
from trembling
hungry hands.
Dawn has broken across the horizon
and I am out looking out
a shattered window on Forever.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Faceted Gemstones" by Dafnanb, dreamstime_14676528.jpg
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Gotham (The Bouquet Of A Rohypnol Martini)
by Joseph Armstead
The fog rolls upward, a polluted magic carpet,
and it spills over the balustrade of the bridge
where hollow echoes
of lonely stacatto footsteps
are lost, consumed
by the oceanic sussuration
from passing automobile traffic.
It is the smoke of a dying fire,
daylight charred into an ashen night.
Walking cloaked in introspection,
I can smell the perfume
from a thousand lackluster tomorrows
as dead-eyed strangers,
spectral shades, phantoms,
and living revenants,
roam the length of the stone serpent
spanning the tumultuous width
of the ancient river
that bisects the City Primordial.
I see the chill
of my cold alienation
reflected
in the fluorocarbon-stained mist,
a mirror
on a corruption of seduction,
My face, like those of the passersby,
a mask of aborted sensation,
a masque at a cemetery ball,
peering through the fog as evening deepens,
a glass of stale champagne,
spiked with jaundiced fruit,
inviting me to join the celebration
and dance
with the other walking dead.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Rain in City" by Tdmartin (Tim Martin), dreamstime_9510020.jpg
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Savage Soul (Bed of Nails)
by Joseph Armstead
Reflected in the lenses of opaque sunglasses,
fashionable insect eyes, tinted windows
on a silicon chip soul, past the swirling
petrochemical fog,
images of the Savage appear,
and atop the chrome obelisks
of the city skyline,
dances the Shadow with the spear
On the streets outside the factories,
herds of junkies roam like lost zombies,
addicted to intolerance,
addicted to fanaticism,
to pretension, dogma and to pain,
habits feeding an inferno
of moronic fear
that sears away
their diseased brains
Don't look away,
Face the beast
and taste the meat,
rut on a bed
of sharpened nails
Their river of memories stretch long, from Present to Past,
a ribbon of blood and faith, a bridge beneath their feet,
the river flows with fury, the river sizzles with the heat,
the pulse of living History,
it is the rhythm of a heartbreak
The Savage within laughs at all their lies,
battling for control, he holds the reins to Empire,
The Savage owns infects their souls
And dapper glass robots stare from gridlocked cars,
unblinking and dismayed, as fossil-fuel
engines growl and rage, tires made of stone
locked in place,
petrified motion,
a thousand eyes on the overpass
staring hateful holes
at the metropolis
they call home
Staring past shadowed insect eyes, pop fashion house labels
and smooth, tailored pelts cut from synthetic kills,
along the dragon's spine of the chrome skyline,
dances the Shadow with the lance
Don't look away,
Face the beast
and taste the meat,
rut on a bed
of fine-honed nails,
the pulse of living History,
it is the rhythm of a heartbreak.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "City" by Bowie15, dreamstime_6314787.jpg
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