the old man in the mirror

she doesn’t understand the rage others impose on being
she learns quickly that the unfamiliar faces are disturbed
when their features shrivel into horrendous shapes
she comprehends the contours of how things should be
or at least how they say they should be
still everything that is the other seems to her an empty shell
emptiness seems to flow through the social strata like a river
there are patterns of it everywhere in her surroundings,
their blood, their intestines
it seems like a farce
she plays her role in the theater of cruelty until it fills her core
hollow, hollow, hollow
she howls into the void
a grotesque play upon a white sheet,
blood sprayed within,
yet unstained from the outside

they may have expelled you for your faggotry,
you, the bearded lunatic of Majáles,
you immoral menace
still howls are continued to be heard, Allen
(the poet, not the pederast)

the void does not have eyes,
contrary to popular opinion.
he does.
he glimpses for the first time a familiar countenance
breathes, and stops the fall of occurrences
breaths, previously manual
now come easily
         in and out!
a great discovery!
operating lungs!
the flesh assembled from empty shells
alive at last!

our century of postmodern brilliance
cyber-faggots of the future
shit on your congregations of discrepancies
between your idiotic so-called soul
with what you project onto us
and the heavy loads of the universe
stanzas of gibberish dominate your lofty incantations
(We finally know what sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open your skulls and ate up your brains and imagination.
It is no longer a question,
         an answer is a working defense.
You should be afraid.
Keep your hands clasped together while we finish the job.)

to hell with the “best minds of our generation” (destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, or whatever Ginsberg howled)
beyond repair
he decides then, in white rooms, behind blue curtains
watching the long hallways stretch out
he will sing those obscene odes
from the top of his living lungs
till the days the decay takes him
dig up his body, say what you will
the bones will not care
the flesh, now melted
still howls at the moon