He takes his energy to live by
leeching from the images:
he holds them captive in his head
as they fly past his empty eyes
that act as if they need no lids
to keep them from escaping him.
A glutton for sex and violence,
he feasts his soul on Pandemonium.
His heart beats like a tattered drum
in tune to the incessant chatter
created by crafty tongues and lips
that shape and shift into proven patterns
guaranteed to pleasure him.
His lust is gratified by their plastic faces;
the dribbling drool is evidence of his approval.
Any brave who tries to change the path of Fate,
as it’s been determined by his whim,
will see his wrath unwrap itself like Giant Wings:
full of fangs will his words become
as they utter their obscenities
in a liquid tone which turns to lava.
He’s prepared to chew through someone’s will until
he breaks the bones of their resistance
or dissolves their sorry soul in humiliation
so he can dominate the TV once again.
He’s a beast! a Tyrannous Rex
that doesn’t give a shit whom it pisses on
when it lifts its leg to leave its mark on our remote.
He lets them figure out how to wash it off…
or whether to do something else about it:
for some his fangs induce contempt,
and his lava tone sets them on fire,
provoking an eruption of profanities to fall like rain
over the slap and thump of rapid fists tending to overthrow a depot,
allowing someone else the opportunity
to be king of our remote control.
by George Wilkerson