These Goths…

With their designer clothes.

Designed to look non-designer.

Their mascara running.

 

Is not America Satanic enough?

 

Bearing scars,
on infected arms.

 

Tripped store alarms.

 

Well-known tricks
that sell their souls quick
for a bag to get off sick.

 

A land where your existence
can be & is
measured & weighed
to wind up factored
in as an economy.

 

Do not tell stories
of a dark reality.

 

The hell with Crowley.

 

Want it scary?

 

Journey down into
the heart of darkness,
the INNER city.

 

Behind every building,
under every bridge,
in every bathroom stall,
are our cities’ deepest pits.

 

There the dark sits,
the darkness lives.

 

We need the real Gothic.

 

Those who burned the body of Percy.

 

His heart collected,
from the ashes,
of his great funeral fire.

 

The poet’s heart,
is even more notorious,
for its indifference to flame.

 

A heart enveloped
in its poem Adonais.

 

Words which lamented
the untimely death
of a young J. Keats,
& praised his immortal
body of work.

 

Magnificent lights that never stay with us.

 

Where are the:
Blakes
Keats
Byrons
Clares
Shelleys
Coleridges
& Wordsworths now?

Who will light the pyre for America?

 

she IS dying…

 

Who here will burn their hand,
taking her heart from the embers of the fire?

 

Who will wrap her heart in the blood-soaked Constitution?

 

That shining poem…

 

Written as testimony,
by those that came before:
that they were here,
that they saw truth,
that they would crawl,
in starved agony,
from underneath the tyranny,
of aristocracy.

 

A call to rise from our knees.

 

That shining moment…

 

We still believed,
even after,
this dark wind of apathy,
swept over the streets,
& destroyed our cities.

 

Now is the time…

 

We can finally breathe.

Now is the time…

 

For us to speak.

 

For us to dream.

 

Now is the time…

 

We must die to live again.

 

 

©2012 ZENspeak9 publications un/incorporated

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