Sarin Gas for the Soul

Human flesh and burning ventriloquists
among the Oxytocin addicts constantly
popping out more life for death by natural selection;

smug glob and hungry for heroin you bite
into the not human flesh of May’s appleskin
as I say you’ll always be in my hurt;

with thrushed throat you drink of the rubied Robitussin;
the jagged humanity of shiny toy landmines
and the jar of Immortality on the table
next to the machinegun; falling asleep you wonder
“are there assault rifles in heaven?” waking unto
the cleft, the cliff—two diverse
energies flowing at a simultaneous constant;

human flesh spouts its patriotism
[War’s main catalyst [[not counting religion]]
not seeing the filth of the future, instead
raging against the Rulemaker’s dominance
where we swim through oceans of teeth
and mansions of whores to pry the dagger
from cold dead hands; we eat not
of terror pie but of mint julep
in the fiery nights while the populace
are forever spun by the spin doctors;
not a true thought abound; mangled
by their smashmouthed words;
for We know that life is rain or shine;

all’s quiet at the absent marketplace;
the professional bridgeburners down the road
rigging explosives so the bridge will tumble downward
like falling elevators and flaming lemmingdrops,
vile cakes of human flesh, bullets and babies,
big bloodclouds on the horizon;

tomorrow tickets go on sale for the execution smackdab in america
where everything is never enough,
the rug never fully wrung dry;
[and oh if only the rampant ribald of Burroughs were here to see this!]
the scent of sound then thinking forward to the present,
slouching toward ataxia day by day
as the clocksucker engulfs more time, soon
we’ll have death guaranteed by american suffocation;
nine more years of winter; all the knives and molars in the world;
the entire heath, the vast wasteland;
america run amuck with cakesuckers
who waddle the sidewalks cracking the cement;

biting deeper into human flesh and thought,
incessant pantomimes of pensiveness,
the reality of postmodern bleeding;
we go suiciding as the tour guide shows us
the Kill-Yourself Collection deep into the overtone of night,
the scent of silence; nothingness; black
as a hole; not even stoneflowers bloom in this kingdom of endless Eclipse;
the jet-setters of white trash scalping tickets
to the extinction; I find it funny this human flesh has bloated
so much before it dies-off; crawl away
looking for a teacup’s worth of water in the Grand Canyon
before our self-inflicted meteor hits,
ripe with a dose of starvation;
poisoning ourselves everyday; what else can be done
when the Annual Apathy Awards become a daily thing?
ghostshadows acne’d with acid scars scalp tickets
to the extinction;

ravenous masses of potential buyers wave handfuls of money.

Heath Brougher is the Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press and co-poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He received Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award and is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. In 2020, he was awarded the Wakefield Prize for Poetry. He has published 11 books and, after spending over four years editing the work of others, is ready to get back into the creative driver's seat. Read other articles by Heath.