Archive
09/08/09
Murder Machine
Then one dusk, at half-past the crack of defunctness, Just like that, Your once-vaunted capacity for cognition sputtered, seized.
The light in your eyes flickered, faded, died. Your arterial and venous blood hardened into silence. Your skin color went from sanguine pink to wraithly peaked,
And routine sleep, always an intermittent phase, Aligned in conjunction with waking, Assumed dominance over your naked, supine body.
Curiously, by the following afternoon, All your circuits were back in perfect working order. Physical harmony and psychic equanimity had been restored.
Even you couldn't believe there'd ever been any disruption, That death had presumed upon your good intentions, Taken advantage of your handshake,
By going around your back, traducing you, Convincing the authorities you'd become a moral liability, Could no longer be depended on to uphold mortality's codes,
And that it would be in humanity's best interest To unplug your life-force, terminate your subversive existence, To which end — yours — death had seemingly been successful.
Only, death didn't have the last say, the last laugh; You did, upon rising from your dream-ashes, next post meridiem, With an abrupt resumption of your corporeal voltage.
For the next forty-eight hours, You were a crazy, enraged beast, a murder machine, Displaying a degree of sadism previously unseen, unconceived,
After which, defeat dealt death a humiliating decease. The authorities, cowering, buried its carcass, with the landfill rats, Laid foodstuffs and spices at your feet,
And, for the remainder of the ages, kept a respectful distance, Hoping to placate your prayed-for benevolence, Persuade you that their expendable lives were worth sparing.
09/08/09
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