eddie mount | from the mouth of cronus

From the mouth of Cronus

I don’t trust the walls
Or clean clothes
Or vapid phrases from laundromats

The voices always come when you’re alone

Puncture wounds stab the web of time.
The smell of unread books virginal in their sincerity
Skeletal remains of a long dead wonder

From the mouth of Cronus
Few can see
It shimmers in and out of Plank’s constant
While dogs bark in trailer parks
And Mothers cry over the death of junkie Sons
Hung on meat hooks
Skin the color of blue sky

The proper people
In shimmering Samite robes
lay claim to performance
They do not eat
They perform
Manipulating gold wrought utensils
Like maestros on a solitary stage
Dining on the marinated tongues of seers

Death is all around me
I hear and see the slow tick of doomsday clocks
superimposed on the face of strangers
Feathers fall to Earth shredded by dark raptors
that patrol the sky in formations of winged skulls
The winds hold its breath
I feel its distaste
I hear the splash and smell the stench of urine
While singers sing the wonder of creation
The soft skin of reptile eggs
Suck at the hardness of the world

Bar coded children born old
Die young
Eviscerated survivors
Huddle around cold fires
With wild eyes
That sees only
Flat seas
Constant deserts
Promises wrapped in barbed wire
Electric fences
Unscalable walls
Moats of gold fire licks at Heaven’s broken gate
Creaking in soft wind
Its unearthly moan tells the world
No one is home

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