Melt Into The Pantheon

Michael Borth

The compression of atonal carnage
is a rather intrusive security question
in the nonpattern of commercial cranium
whereby the neighbor urine
is a rolling steady synonym
for the haywire imago of the young century.

And pulsed to a replicate jury
amassed in victorian windows
to continue the curse of the sound grift
that will jettison consciousness
into a roiling black space of optical fiber
and shattered glockenspiel.
That regular arriving pain.
That restitution of a griffin
and the slimy prophylactic in blister heritage.

The world is now only password recovery.
And hovering the floor of big bangs.
To vibrate in a rainbow cloak of anxiety
as granite birds melt into the pantheon
of regret sills in Madrid. 
The goal is to move south
until the earth is a still plateau
blueshadowed in the climate of natural freon.