“My Backward Mirror”

I wince in discretion, two long, spiraling anuses peering
past the cement oceans and metal-smith carriages of this,
our techno-industrial Orwellian civilization,
baptized in the blood of peace and the sovereignty of wars past.
Appearing to me like Abraham once saw,
what was once up is now down and what was once down is now up,
like the shifts have already taken their full effect and
grandfather clocks are now not as we once thought them to be.
Walking on my hands, I approach the gates,
the shards of a lazy society lacerating my palms
and allowing the insects invitation.
Mother stands before me.
Her left smiles with care and concern over my trial, but her
twin sneers and spits acid upon my brow.
I scurry away like a filthy rat and walk up and down
the streets, watching murders
against professional whores invade the intersections,
and the barbarians, driving their aluminum roaches, commit
random acts of violence against each other,
as well as those trying to give themselves
discourse across the hard-molten paths.
Pleasure rings from the alley.
Adam stands there, naked.
Red aura pours from behind her,
giving her curves a shadow that
stands alone as frightening.
Adam lifts her arms and levitates,
abruptly crucified to the bricks behind her.
I quickly walk, my knuckles breaking from the stress,
finally reaching the town square, where
the Fuhrer’s speech is
projected in the faces of his militia fighters.
Standing at attention,
the face of our leader projects his agenda:
to unite this land under the tip of a nuclear warhead
so peace and civility can wash over us,
and that we all may live in harmony, allowing our
trades conducted with plagues of locusts and peace
be with us all, proclaimed from the cold-blooded
innocence resided within the brain matter of the retarded.
I turn to my right, horrified by what I saw.
A single disgusting, putrid pest nestled snug on my sleeve,
it’s wings shimmering in hues of gold.
I shuddered, letting the nimble creature into the air,
fluttering off into the distance.


About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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