Death By Television

The tawdry beast is never satisfied,

So the teleharmonic squawking

Ups her savage game

And aggravates the sonic blister

Of ugly demand.

For we are victims of our own renaissance,

Mere cool cucumber casualties

High on our metastatic supply.

Who will torch

These plastic ghouls

That dispatch transmissions

Through blue jean pockets

And light up dim lantern souls

With deadweight oblivion?

Wedded to machine,

Toy phantoms signal

A funeral wail

Of coded underground sound,

Where the voided and dead,

Host invisible playgrounds

And carnal carnivals.

And the cyber crawl sprawl

Laps salt lick waves of iron seas

That sheets its wraparound pillage

Into the pear halved gates

Of domestic sanctuary,

Snaking in grim tidings

And ruthless come hither lies,

The specious fairweather charms

Of hypnotic blizzard flies.

Black hole hearses

Are held unshakably taut

In the hooked snout fingers

Of her buzzard encircled drinkers

That give zombie stare cheers

To sugar sweet strychnine

Masquerading as wine.

And let God be told

That we let the Trojan horses sidle in,

With noble intention

Atop imperial garland halo heads

Braided with naïveté

And peril;

A King Lear tragedy

For the technocratic age.

For we are victims of our own renaissance.