DEMIURGE by Case Wagenvoord

Gooor-geee,

Thunderbird and toking—Jesus I love them!
Earth spinning,
wailing my prick to the heavens
the demiurge Jehovah did embrace me
and joined me to the St. Vitus’s Dance of the free and the mad,
spinning spin in the putrid green glow of the screens blinking
on the pale faces of the crazed made wise,
pumping their keyboards in a frenzy of abstracted passion
‘til they spunked the milk-maid evil
of the brain-decayed intellects
to explosions of blood and the viscera glowing in the vacant stares
of the pinched-faced powerful farting not flames but platitudes
as their manicured fingers squeezed truffles out of road kill
to the rattle of abstract equations made elegant,
as the broken and the shattered sing praise
to the greater glory of the demiurge praising the martyr’s death
as he suffers the little children into the purifying flame
ripping open their wounds with his nails
that their blood might sanctify the holy ground of battle
to the dry chants of formula and policy,
consigning the dead to the glory of the Homeland
as the scalpel of peace cuts away the rot of the old,
slicing to the sound of a little child at play,
then a blinding flash and a red smear and a torn sneaker on a sidewalk,
to the boom-boom symphony played in the techno-fetish dawn
of the new age of the St. Vitus Dance of the free.

moi



A poem by Case Wagenvoord.