The Love Macine

Part one: Lamb
Mountains of cotton and polyester tremble
in trepidation. An avalanche of sweat and
splinters shower the polished marble. Semen
stains the bedsheets; fluorescent in the lunar
glow – signposts and muffled scents of misery.
Tobacco stains the hillsides; perfectly displacing
the freshly laundered snowfall. Self-indulgence
in the name of love; perfection on the outside but
bones and ash show the shattered skeleton of
childhood dreams. The wounds won't heal if you
play them again and again – disfiguring perfect
flesh in sick tyranny. Creepers and vines sheath
the bedhead; lust in slow motion and the haunting
continues. Acid rapes an alkaline lake but
neutral ground is unstable and the day breaks.

Part Two: Hyena
Schizophrenic sex on saline shores;
saliva breaks the growth of monsters and
memories – sugar in the engine of the love machine.

Blue blood blotches the sheets like
champagne in an anaerobic romance.
The bedside lamp is obscured by

smoke and steam scald the ceiling
of ivory and cream. Turquoise pillowcases
stained with hair of brown and gold -

dyed to deter the last time. The window
offers safety in broken glass but the morning
illuminations are dull and dreary.

Part Three: Spider
Silk glistens in the artificial light;
urine and poison drip like melted
ice-cream. Insects instigate investigations
of light-bulbs and open wounds. The fierce
monsters fight for dominance and insecurity
to eat them from inside. With broken wings
and poisoned blood; a shell without a body and
the spider dines again.

Orange peel litters the sleeping chamber of the
killing machine; the hairdryer was never plugged
into the wall. The wasps and flies in eternal slumber
fight for affection and unnatural union. They came
too early if they came at all – the imposter has
long since been claimed by starvation and
exhaustion. The conquered renegade lover
masturbates in irony.

Part Four: Elephant
The world laughed at lead and lust.
The world never knew of love and rust.
The sycophants never got out of bed.
The hate exploded and now they're dead.
Truth explodes in a silent look -
Revenge like a storybook.
Rhyme rapes the meaning from words.

Part Five: Monkey
The information age of published self-destruction;
lights flash as the stairway becomes obsolete.
The springs of the bed creak like the broken bones
of the preserved dead. An explosion of power
behind the membrane and the powder settles
in nasal tubes. A visual clue in the quest for love -
the modern-day Shelley is branded a menace
in iron bars. Coffee stains the semen sheets
and the burning forests intoxicate the weak.
When love lost taste and feel; sex on the internet
somehow loses intimacy with background music.
The guitar reaches it's climax and the drums fade
and the monkeys find another lover for another night.