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".