Monday, December 19, 2011

It's A Living

It’s A Living
Allen Masterson

Absorbed into the machinations of a
Honeycomb personality disorder,
Synchronized button pushing manifests
A mirrored figurative effect as I
Gnash my teeth and stomp my feet
At the crimes of routine.

Radio frequencies deconstruct molecules
To bond together pieces of a temporary shelter,
Which protects vulnerable creatures from the harsh reality
of their environment; for a fee, of course.

Cold hard cash is the coefficient I concern myself with
in the formula of a punched clock purgatory.
But harpies flutter about, pecking at my psyche
While picking my pocket with a quicksand hand

But there is respite down the corridor of time
Where behind unlocked doors whisper Saturn and Sun
The promises of security from society
And rumors.... of The Great 401.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Prior to Coffee

Prior to Coffee
Allen Masterson

Dead last is the penultimate goal.
Only around long enough to process the contradiction,
But not enough to transcend  process
And still the mind.

Finding your voice at midnight
While ceaseless engineering surrounds;
Cogs, components, subjugated metal
forged from DNA to clock a race.

Having realized Hell is a franchise of self-service
summons the CEO whom delivers the golden parachute
Of dawn before Watchers rise to meet the day;
Their haven is a ritual, a sneak peak in prostration.

Life is breath, biological combustion.
The Id conducts the machine in silence
While Ego secures cargo in compartments of
the mind.

A series of segues mark freeways,
forked paths lacking illumination from without.
Style is honed to solidify connection to the farm,
To find rows best suited for chaos with a side of fetish.

Cherubs feast on catastrophes painted on a cube,
Never realizing the true contents of their diet:
Fear seasoned with images, sauteed with words, digested with archetypes.
Sex intoxicates, lubricates back door pallets of perception.

Tainted are dreams now rotting on my pillow.
Drool of countless lives contained in a helix,
Folding flaws like origami on the tip of a tongue.
So With my final breath I say to you, "Good morning".