Fed to Machines

Molotov: Poems

By

Tom Baker

Last night in my dreams,

Serenaded by screams,

I was fed to machines--

(I was marched past the pools of crystalline tears, where spinning spikes render flesh into shreds.)

This is the planet of last-minute wishes,

Of cold blue-lipped kisses--

Of sex-maddened dreams,

Of bloody-eyed tears, and torturous screams.

And the planet's a phantom, and the man is a ghost--

(And he spits out the body and feeds on the host!)

A symbiosis gained by the gristles of flesh--

That dissolves into mist when the morning dawns fresh.

The beauty of stitches, the erotic old scar--

To palpate the flesh that the maggots will mar.

I see geometries widen the gulf in your eyes,

In the angles between, in the crux of your thighs.

To blood and to piss and to shit we return,

To the grave we belong, just more food for the Wyrm.

(Just a pile of ashes or a razor-blade treat; just a stranger to torture and a child to beat.)

And this is the Universe, long may it rot,

In eternal putrescence, as death is our lot.

And TIME is the enemy; decay is the way--

And bones all that rattle at the end of the day.