Y. Hirano

for this is not Inferno and I am not yet damned, only by half.
Foot in the maw, I am one of the populace, two eyes closed, one mouth gaping.
When I grow up, I will polish the boot of progress, so that it may grind and shatter the bones within my forefathers’ face.
There will be no wrong, for the accuser will lie, six feet under, having seen the flesh rot off the manifesto.
See here you silly little man !
I use my left hand to cast the vote, my right to hold up a halo of twisted equity.
Yester-year is tomorrow, today I am sober. The name’s Modernisation—twenty-one thousand medals like a forelock over the eye.
Behind, the retinue capers neath abstraction, speaks to me of ancestry, those pre-daters and their crumbling floors.
We think the ceiling has risen as each millenium fades, only that the ground sinks beneath the weight of ideology.
My father and his father before me carried the antiquities called Sins within their breast pocket, let make it hard for the lungs to rise with breath. Now I stoop as Inheritor, asked my superiors to sew me not a pocket, but columns for foundation, and walls, as that one would take when building a house with no ceiling.
They snort dust and sing, “How shall we deconstruct history, us geniuses of folly?” So saying, they give sacrifice to those who sculpted Solomon's marble, salute the scratch of names being carved into bullets.
Thus I take stand behind, facing the ladder.
Laughter coats my teeth; it drips out, trickles to the floor as cynicism.
I fly the banner that says ‘Live.’
I polish that boot, having seen the underneath, the barefoot within.

Fear’s high brow glints as the horizon, society’s fist beating down on the arena.

Look into me, and hear the mumbling of decay.

My people…

Are the blind
Encircled within
Confines of voice
See not falsity
That drips o'er the lips
Of mankind
Need not gouge out eyes
Burnished red neath
Slashed serenity
Archangels chanting
In swollen tongue
By this guard
From the malevolence of delusion
Guard the secular

And remnant enslaved
Within barbed logic
Let no quiver of soul fan
Fires of insanity
Nor melancholy of self
Let them, the infidels