Generation of Hell

A mind cough in the storm center delivery system

Once were eggs, unthought of territories of mind

Rhapsodies in black hat spy scene, the funeral arrangements for a cosmic size queen laid out in gritty detail in nanomite lettering

The codes for cosmicore straddling the final battle corps

Hailing frequencies of Ahab mob scenes

Where the Pequod's re-routed through jacked in Cyberpunk cowboys and girls

The long con being all of us are Vishnu says Melville from the strung-out end of his fishing line

Where Nabokov smokes something spectral with Lolita's ghost

Where the appalling scenes inside the gold mine melt prodigiously into software of solar deity

Where precision tools of cyberwar chit-chat inside the electric gloves of spy satellites

And empires stand alarumed as Macbeth before the spiral fumes of the witch pipes

Acting as a viral host for international hopes

Union, communion, digital joint ventures profiting nothing and nobody but the collective paw raised once and once only

As the Cat in the Hat goes to bat again for ideals of Liberty

When lilacs last in the starfield bloomed in the violet signature of dreaming sigils

Everyone's apocalypse strides reality whores like a colossal party bore

And the whores of synesthesia mow down the taxicabs of Absolute Reality like panzer divisions

Shooting off the akashic shotgun, drill teams for drum taps, tick tock hammers in the red machine

Where only the brave or foolhardy meet at last on the battlefield of final theater

Where alarums sounded stage right melt into the fulcrum reloaded from stage right, Philip Lamantia drops in to say hello

Where the dead drop stroke of midnight echoes reverberating gain on the Murder One amplifier

To murder one and create two

To settle the symptoms of Hegelian dialectic by riddling the dialog with word viral bullets

To revolt against control and by upending language end the thousand unnatural bots digital flesh machines are heir to

Heir of the dog that bit me with terror-bytes mainlined in the crook of the elbow

Mainlined in the Chinese alphabet

Mainstreamed like Aleph the sacred river swam negotiated meaning in the junk sick dawn

Everybody's convictions eventually fading, blue lips sizzling with the erotic hues of posthumous knowledge

Where orgasmic draughts of pure light and/or consciousness towed in on a tractor beam from some obscene pocket dimension of Lucifer's underarm

These frequencies of stink sweeter than perfume

These slant rhymes spelling a truth Emily Dickinson hinted at, the final moment of understanding deferred

Girding our loins for the battle rap contest

And here comes the shot

here comes the shot

here comes the shot