Left-hand panel text:SKINNED ALIVE, that last protective skein of illusion
ripped off.
No insulation against acid reality,
flayed meat exposed to searchlight glares,
burning harsh to panic madness.
No respite, no solace, no refuge anywhere
on my grilled raw surfaces.
Only the corrosive cooking smell, the sickening realization that
there is no self-duplicity in your predation,
not even the inner pretension to virtuous disposition.
No idealistic aspirations here;
draw a breath and nothing, no one rushes in to aerate the blood.
There is no one home to come home to, no one home to avoid, no one home to pay homage to,
no home at all,
just emptiness that suffocates my attempts to fertilize it with stubborn hopes.
No one home, only the wheels turning,
the lips moving
to emit sounds that assemble into
perfunctory rationalizations for our benefit.
The abuse of power makes an honest man of you
the addictive thrill of unconcealed contempt
the exhilarating buzz of sadistic anger
the obsessive fascination with victims there to receive your cruelty,
all these throw your profile into sharp relief
and gain your entry to the universal brotherhood.
The travesty would be to pretend among the company you keep
to believe in the appearances you keep up,
the casual appearance of earnest good intentions.
