Monday, February 3, 2014

Belching Crude

I shout consciousness at unreal spectators
using oil as a metaphor for the most rank sadism
because what better metaphor could I find?
It is the disintegrated innards of millions of dead dragons
Turned to poison, crushed beneath the weight of existence,
and then summoned up from the netherworld to belch fire.

So I say that beneath our daily lives, our minds
ferment the same slick poison, that cancerous thoughts
metastasize from direct exposure to the spills
caused by our containment being ruptured unexpectedly,
ruining the environments we use to decorate our lives
and poisoning our families even as we scream necessity.

Those privileged among us choose alternatives,
refusing to tap the deeper well of our distant lives,
leaving dead dragons in their places, and often,
finding themselves better off for it. I am not able, I live
forever trapped between the darkness and the need
to burn forever in the light of my distant past.

The only sustenance for those who live like me is the poison,
which we know will one day choke us off; it can only end
the way it has always ended: with fire and smoke or by drowning
in a dark pool of life's least successful attempts at replication.
But still, we drill. Pressurized poison courses through our pipes,
and we are arrogant enough to direct it into our lives.

What mess have we enabled, by living so far in the past?
How could we have avoided choking on our own dinosaur
memories? I see myself forever manning a station that monitors
the distribution of the pressurized crude of my upbringing
among the present consciousness of better citizens.
It makes me dream of firebreathing.

I am not an artist, I am an oil spill. I exist as a reminder
of the darkness, the desolation caused by a callous
disregard for future consequences. I have been that since
my conception--a shame to teenage parents, a reminder
of their own reptile brains betraying the future of their dreams.
Is it any wonder that my inner voice is an incoherent scream?