It's A Living

It’s A Living

By

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.

Prior to Coffee

Prior to Coffee

by 

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".