Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450?1516), The Garden of Earthly Delights Triptych, 1490?1500
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In Flagrante Delicto
by John Kendall Hawkins
.
Kennelheads, mad dogs barking, foaming at the mouth,
howl at the pregnant moon, all estrus red
like the eyes of Rosemary's Baby, maculately conceived.
.
The laughing hyenas are circling the fire
where lies a dying man tended to by Susan Hayworth,
who is looking like she could ride a bomb today -- that hot!
.
Somewhere between crà ¨me de la crà ¨me and scum de la scum,
somewhere between the smelly beast and perfumed superman,
on the continuum's tightwire the walker between two towers
leans into the wind and the wind cries Mary.
.
You have to think of your children
leverage, doublebinds, look-at-me-lock-em-in smiles
the cocknasceti of the coming darkness clouds say --
false riders of the faux Apocalypse, looking for pay to play
monsters, actalikes and wannabees of the last rage.
.
Satan doesn't exist, of course, any more than God.
The biggest trick God ever played was convincing us of his existence in the first place.
And evil now has no canon reference.
We're on our own in the vacuum of relativity where op-eds are on display
Backroom boys say, mangia, and dig in to the ante-bellum pile.
.
The constellations will be re-named
by Jeff Bezos, Eric Schmidt and Elon Musk
where the Big Dipper was is now a realpolitik wink
we've sh*t the bed with space debris, we're going nowhere
we've even locked in the UAP aliens the gov once said did not exist
the floods are ready, the fires are appalled
Detroit's old assemblies will see new life breathed in
with the Fedex delivery of CRISPRs and 3D print machines.
.
I'm glad I'm old and will die soon.
If I stayed a few more days I might have to live forever,
like Orson Welles at the end of The Long Hot Summer sans the good.
I won't live to see the new breed of tyranncidal maniacs --
the armies of killer humanities needed to quell the q-bit queers
with their mind-hacking tools to enforce the algorithms.
Captain Gargleteeth from Kenmore Square be-bopped by a walloped baseball
duckrabbits down the street fast-talking in quantum auction English.
.
It's as if the phantasmagorical beauty and terror of the cathedral's God love
the traversing bones and blasphemy and metaphysical alchemy that say I do,
can no longer keep the gargoyles out
as if the gargoyles could no longer keep the animists at bay
and its all circling around in that Yeatsian gyre
when some punk suckerpunches the falconer in the face
and the stars he sees in the kaleidoscope of terror ahead
.
Wouldn't you?
