The Neon Gaschamber
I was napping through the war
I heard nothing when the armored bumper cars
overran the city,
and ran off
with my garbage,
my garden of debris
Weird, smoking
bones of bicycles
were scattered on the lawn
A motorcycle melted
The rider spilled into the street
like a burning leather
milkshake
There was the unholy sound
of crying
deep within the wooden
guts
of a skeleton of church
I unlocked the doors
of my dreamstate,
and saw
that the neighbor's heart
was petrified,
like a paperweight
of fire,
just beyond the gate
He was in a state
of excruciating
violence,
a thousand miles away
I could barely hear him,
even as hellfire
ripped the air
in two,
like a sheet of festive
giftwrap
Christmas coming early
I was ready for
it,
though
I was in a state of peace
The ring of ancient elephants
chanting death inside
my mind,
attempting to lay siege
to my domestic
expectations,
were laughable at worst
The hordes of bum
& locust,
the unruly rabid
clown,
the flames are out
of focus,
the plane is going
down
Will we ever meet again?
Perhaps in the pages of a storybook?
A fairytale of sin?
A nightclub,
or a work camp?
Perhaps a bonfire on the outer ring
of someone else's
paradise
Shall we scale the walls
of the nudie
church
of Hades?
Get married in the mouth
of a moaning neon
lion?
Shall we, preening,
go careening
off the waterfalls
of Zion?
Shall we tumble like a pair
of mismatched
socks
into the eternal burning
chasm?
Will we trade our souls like contraband?
Will we savor the crumbs of eternity
we've collected from
the gutter?
They gave us a bar
of soap and a
martini,
and told us to get
naked
They led us to the neon gaschamber
They told us we'd be free
Will we ever meet again?
Will we pretend to eat the knife?
Will our numbers become
famous
in the labor camp
of life?
Where's the drunken captain?
Who's the songwriter in charge?
What kind of explosives
are the children
wrapped in?
What on earth has happened?
Will I see you on the streets of fiction,
smuggling your beauty
like a bomb inside
a basket?
Shall I convert your music box
into a singing
casket?
If they come to rob your
grave,
they will get a deadly
song
Beauty kills the iron fist
I am the ghost of Christmas feathers,
floating on the fairy
lights,
the calm, narcotic
mist
©Nathan Payne
November 2023
