fear incantations from the western lands no.2

fear incantations from the western lands… a world rendered meaningless that no one any longer understands… controllers, operators, mannequins, idiots, deplorables… wheeling bodies into the pit, clouded in cement dust; carcinogens, pharmaceuticals and body parts…

cities of the arabic world in flames… throwness, lostness, decay, collapse… fire-bombing, carpet-bombing, surveillance drones glide above the war-zone… blast-wall corridors demarcate the green-zone…

game theory statisticians, five percent nuclear war, child soldiers turned to mincemeat out in that rawest field…  embedded reporters pissing themselves as the tanks roll in like doom centipede columns…

creeping existential panic, tyranny, war, mind-games… coup, putsch, junta, regime change… taste the metal on your tongue as each freedom is slowly chipped away… bite the bullet, baby… bite the bullet…

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hallucination dreams from the abandoned desert camp no.4

i am shot with wounds in the sky of blood, the eyes of my lesions see only sorrow… the verb to be: panoramic, unhealable, i am the ghost-sarcophagus: tomorrow… wide-eyed cannibal populace, eat themselves alive… only prairie dogs and centipedes have the stomach to survive…

waves of misery, misunderstanding, coat the border-valves of reason… blast-wall corridors show the fracture stains of hypocritical human treason… dead-end horror, stoke the flames; poison, preach, pervade… lick the screen, milk the machine, sub-consciousness invade…

lost ideals float atop dust rivers unspeakable… hallucination, pollination; open-mouths of frozen people….  i am shot with wounds now, beneath a chemical sky… the verb to be no longer free from the transitive verb: to die…

– bianca laleh

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distant images of a concourse going away no.2

‘let it not end this way’ …he whispered into the night… their dreams of the undoing… wrapped in funeral delight… the things we love are the things we lose… insidious are our dreams… the distant failures we flirt with inside the victories we choose…

in times of doubt seek the lightning storm… court the panic in the affray… permit yourself a ritual death… let the human go astray… the moment is but a grave where shadows of living stir…the things we love, the things we lose, all things start to blur…

turn off the buzzing, droning screens… switch off the salivating machines… succumb to new tectonic algorithms you only see in dreams… watch the snapshot glimpses of a burning dawn… reflections in the broken… chart the sorrow slowly coming in…

inside the codes that go unspoken… here begins, the long fall into the murky grey… and there she whispered: ‘my love, let it not end this way…’

– bianca laleh

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distant images of a concourse going away no.1

insidious dreams beneath, the whole world out of reach… distant images of a concourse going away… fingertips losing touch as the dust sweeps up the moment to be lost and forgotten; or held endlessly dear…

the insurmountable depths of an instant, when all is cast away, deep into long doubt and regret… all that is fleeting and precious, all that will be gone… dreams of the undoing coming on…

slow moaning drones, building their steady rising… all is hurled headlong into the storm, the turmoil, the affray; endless nights of disarray… harrowing knowing on the brink…

the heart pounding, roaring with the cruel agony of ‘alive’ …let the fear creep in, let the waves of anxious nervous energy cloud the rationale; staggering  backwards into the bear-trap…

the collapsing aperture going away. the solemn swansong a funereal drone sounding out long over a mist-shrouded frozen dream… lungs, heart, brain of the machine…

see the snapshot glimpses of a bitter dawn, reflections in the shimmering shards of the newly broken…  sorrow slowly coming on… the long trawl into a murky grey… ‘let it not end this way…’

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hallucination dreams from the abandoned desert camp no.3

dead end horror of the centipede gods, hallucination wrapped in ill reason… colombian necktie sky explorations, tasting the poison preachings of the hypocrite madmen; prarie dogs at the throats of the roaming lost and ashamed…

licking the screen, decimated… bleeding out across the valves… lost ideals float downstream on rivers of dusty pollution… there is a policeman inside the sky… an endless dead gaze fixed in satellite orbit…

inside the imperial sarcophagus, a low moaning through the fractured blast-walls… wide-eyed cannibal populace eating themselves alive… waves of misery, misunderstanding and desolation…

‘…i am shot with wounds which have eyes that see a world all sorrow, always to be, panoramic and unhealable, and mouths that hang unspeakable in the sky of blood…’

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