Monday, January 13, 2014

"Black Hole Son." A Poem About The Viral, Three-Headed Cerberus Dominating The 21st Century: Spirituality, Technology & Media.

Or something.  Includes nods to Alice In Wonderland, The Exorcist, and more signposts on the road to WTF?  Yeah, sometimes as a writer--often, as far as I care--one must simply let the words flow and decipher messages and meaning afterward.  Hence, "Black Hole Son"--yeah, that's your Soundgarden nod, too--a hodgepodge of madness that, ultimately, carves a path toward salvation or, at least, acknowledges there is none. 


Look, Monday Blog time and I am mentally fried, exhausted.  I was scribbling one on my take on the second Hobbit Movie, The Desolation of Smaug, but I'm not going to fight the exhaustion, so as a failsafe, I was thinking, share poetry.  Yeah, share poetry, John Claude.  But, I don't write easy little verses meant to make one smile and warm the cockles of one's heart.  Though, actually, anybody who smiles at this might be getting some cockle-warming, (and that smile might be quite devious).

Cockles.  I think that's the first time I've ever used that word. 

Anyway, here's the poem, crude around the edges--so skip it if that's not your bag--mostly written about three years ago, I believe, though tweaked and tampered with, fondled and flayed, over the last couple days, to make it, um...

Just read it and remember it's © 2014 by John Claude Smith.


Black Hole Son


Down the rabbit hole we tumble,

Alice with a cross jammed into her vagina,

“Fuck me, Jesus,” followed by a tip of the hat

to the Maddest Hatter of them all:

Religion, by any other name

still pricks with thorny abandon.

“Praise Allah!  Praise Technology!”

Infected impact of overbearing ideals,

illusions of faith falsely constructed


Black Hole Son, Won’t You Come,

And Take the Dreams Away…


But He‘s got a cross to bear,

so bear witness to his cross defense:


Ommmmm said the anchorman,

anchored to ideals based on the perfectly plastic hairstyle.

Ego and substance battle for the rights to

Spirituality. Humanity. Ratings!

Contagion sandblasted like blood off the cross.

“Praise Jesus! Praise Bill Gates!”

As technology tweaks the Shroud of Turin--

the appropriate Jurassic Park impetus--

cloning The Second Coming for Prime Time approval.


Black Hole Son, Won’t You Come,

And Take The Madness Away.


Enter stage left, the stars of this absurdity,

featureless foes fortified on faux features:


American Idol? How about Mythbusters?

Spreading like a rash, a disease,

mad cow disease for those who follow like sheep.

Alice still screaming, “Fuck me, Jesus!”

while live cams and duplicitous sponsors

await the true climactic moment--it’s cumming, it’s cumming!

At the hands of the intrusive (24/7) Sinister Technology,

a viral spirituality that has corrupted the world

to our own gleefully negligent approval.


Black Hole Son, Won’t You Come--

Come As You Are, Fercrissakes!


Patience a withered and weary March Hare, 

a disgruntled Red Queen in grim observance:


Down the rabbit hole humanity tumbles,

hands clenched in prayer to the Real Religion.

one basked not in blinding spiritual glow,

but blinding ignorance and social media seduction

tallied as How Many Friends one has on Facebook

or who we follow on twitter--such twitiotic times!

Oh, did you see the latest sound byte/snapshot/ego stroke blurb

from [fill in the blank space with the latest bland celebri-soul]?

Hence, Psalm 69 from the New Dark Age Bible:


“Sold my soul to the devil for a pack o’ cigarettes and some Taco Bell.

Felt I got the best part o’ the deal even with the gas. [cont.]


[cont.] You see, I wasn’t using it anyway, this so-called soul,

So what’s the use o’ carryin’ it around?  It didn’t fill the dead space…”


Black Hole Son, Won’t You--

Won’t You?  Please…?


Alice no longer curiouser and curiouser,

simply bleeding from self-imposed spiritual abuse:


While the water cooler zombies gossip about the celebri-soul’s every word,

God, the ultimate carrier/enabler, gleefully guns down rumors and ideals

in the latest version of Grand Theft Auto, 

with a Pazuzu possessed Regan MacNeil humping his leg BigTime

in the celestial wasteland, not heaven

but the vacant expanse where dead souls used to reside.

Now, dead souls and dwindling hope share the s p a c e,

feast on the empty airways where the corrosion of self

has reached code blue--critical mass.


Black Hole Son, You Have Come,

Deceptive and Divine!


Shaped by the technologically corrosive landscape the Viral Spirituality feeds on dreams and designs, a narcissistic future based on need and not necessity.

A black hole, son, a void within a void within a void.



…and pass the remote control.

Yes, that's the heart.  Here's some info on the cockles. 

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