How I Dreamt of a Monolith

Posted by Erik Moshe on Monday, April 22, 2013 Under: Poetry



How I Dreamt of a Monolith

My head on a pillow transported me to a palace wall guard’s evening patrol post. The air is a stifling Argonaut perfume; the tower is erect as a martian thermometer, introducing wind bridges into a conduit doing its best mimicry for the architecture of the soul. One of the more meticulous avenues in the stages of dream stage alchemy, is opening Tesla’s tubes to the crouching antennas and Andromedan lentils protruding from the top of Mount Babel herself, in clear violation of headless fortress health code. Pillars of thought have toppled under less atmospheric pressure. The Swiss Bank of International Settlements (BIS) is not a water tower in the midst of a zombie capital as it seems. Though the trickery lies in the paper receipts, and the gold bullion scarab hordes, there is a nobility in the achievement of constructing mounds, reinforced in mental mortar & mind-steel deposits; contradicting the lazy intensity of the underworld, and working in favor of the archer blacksmith. Akkad in a berry wool sweater plays spiked racquetball with the gate. The mint in his mouth tastes like a sugared iron anvil. His armor is a blanket, whatever attainable material his sleep can recreate for him.

A Nuremberg barge festival spills over the rim and showers the city in Aryan Rorschach idioms. Look closer, see a fingerprint of elitist Earth mantle. Colossal codex cornflower duplex drapery in morbid magenta ribbons. The EU’s own elven stronghold; more doors to failure. Where riddles unsolved build sandcastles on an uninspired lawn. Magog sits splendidly on the dead grass.

How I Dreamt I Would Fall

Jacob’s deteriorated ladder wasn’t there. My greatest fears were an open construction site. Zen and the art of ziggurats. Many had come to see a citadel of oneself in all its glorification. But the system was broken and one world currency was not the answer. Soothsayers hung off scaffolds, a hanging garden with ill intent haranguing the public to “do something now” or face the steep decline of the immortally misunderstood democracy clause. Metronome glyph, clings to citrus beads. White blood cells rush to the aid of an injured nation. The International Monetary Fundraiser is the debt consolidation virus said to cure the virus. Lest it be known as a scam, they adapt a non-predatory logo and official lingo. Against the windows of perception, a botanical complex in machine city is presented as the last hope. The fact stands. We are not mechanized. We are renewable antibodies on a Potomac peninsula pulsar parched from deception’s pipe burst.

In : Poetry 



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