Lizards Lay In Wait For The Wagons

I certainly don't seem to live in the same world most people do, and considering my personal history it's no wonder. Most people don't even know what neology is, and surely aren't able to pronounce epiphenoumenomenology, let alone cope with the concept of repressive de-sublimation as an inculcated cultural gloss. So when you top that off with my rampant Gnostic evangelism and extensive friendships with Angelic beings (on both sides of the "Fall") and numerous sundry wiccans who run the gamut of colorful persuasions you may begin to gain a sense of my idiososynchratic onus (To each his onus, eh?) and thence & hence, my diatrilemma:


Lizards lay in wait for the wagon.
Routed through rutted road
the neighing horses hurried
the two “norms”
toward their destination,

(a supposed bastion of
non-mutated sanity
within a world
gone genetically gravid
with possibilities).

Into the twisted trees
they turned
never knowing the passions
that burned
within the breasts
of the beasts
that slithered and hissed,
hidden in mists,
a scant semblance
of sanity
searing their synapses
with a blinding blood-lust.

Onward the wagon then
entering the murky fen,
the high pitched sibilance
of snake syllables
surround the travelers
in a turbid confusion
of scaled arms
and swords.

Surging over the wain
writhing
and wresting the life
from the two wayfarers
first
and ransacking the cargo
at leisure later.
Human-haters
yet somehow certain,
that those mindless impulses
that impel them
have purpose
and purvey
a better way
for the world to be

. . .

see:
to violence and destruction
they would not have been liable
had the artifacts they carried
been anything other than
(what incisive saurians blamed
for the sorry state of the world
they’d inherited, and causally defamed) . . .

. . . a thousand moldy copies
of Gideons’ Bible!