[FLOODING THE ZONE]

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[FLOODING THE ZONE]

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blister bingo and plethora bruises,

phantasm full of plasma like red gold,

blood bags we are, hornwearers all.

we snarl and howl, cutting with the

sharp edge of credit cards, by and large

we are looking for limbs we leave like

breadcrumbs for our festering souls,

over-Freudian, fraudulent, surfing for

failsafes. On stumps, wires, hairy humps

we crawl and crawl, scanning for meaning

to shove into our maws.

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Throatprophet, throat-prone,

siren-song, top-40 venereal disease,

covered in web residue, drones, fleas.

The critters have been monstered,

lid-flipped, chained to chant-rounded

trees. This is a seance, a witch trial,

an angelic dust-up. We don’t know

what the hell it is, but it ain’t good.

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Oh Druid, oh Priest, oh Lewisian

Merlin, come back from our past

and smack the future off our faces:

that bloodsucker, that cad, teach us

instead the smiles of old.

_______________________

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*poem by JJ Brinski the Mad Space Poet