Inverted Ambiguïté di America

 

************A Ryan E Mot-Hag Poem*********************************

*Inverted Ambiguïté (Rouge, Hyacinthum, et Blanc) di America*

 

See there?

 

Perched upon the green?

 

Staring at the smoldering sun?

 

The Eagle.

 

Two heads, or one, depending on who’s talking.

 

Second head plunging in and out of its dark feathered body like a mirage.

 

The snake writhes in its claws, whispering to itself:

 

I am the collage of madness. I am the incarnation of thee… I am become the destroyer!

 

It vanishes with a caw of victory.

 

Oh its benevolent caw… How it doth not fit the underbelly of the beast, or rather,

 

The truth:

 

Die 21 Welten. World Elephant with the serpent nibbling its own tail. Country atop the turtle.

 

See there, the Eagle flying by?

 

The buildings rising high out of the belly,

 

The facets of the turtle shell creaking up and down into place

 

Like sandcastles in my dreams, oh dear child!

 

Do you not see the shape of those structures? How devastated they are!

 

How maddening their construct… Creaking and leaking, pipes bursting, stone groaning.

 

How, familiar. They look like home to me,

 

Hisses the snake.

 

I quite like this land I see beneath me!

 

The Eagle gusts by, the sounds of its wings shaking spacetime.

 

Shaping the world with those twin black holes spinning like a top:

 

The Eagle shapes the world’s time.

 

Fly fly fly away, Old Warbird! Streak across the sky and rain down shooting stars!

 

March on! March on! Fight! Die! Go! Run! Duck! Watch! Shoot! Bullet! Eagle! Land! Charge! Wade! Crouch! Play! Dead! Birds! Peck! At! My! Skin! Look! Win! Medal! Hero! Shock! Caw!

 

It perches again, upon the arm of the businessman with the wacky hair.

 

His green (unlike the cactus) is one of a different nature,

 

A devastating glare with metaphysical thorns.

 

The green gives him great blare every day. He shoots needles from his mouth.

 

The Eagle takes the bullets for those like the businessman, placing an iron flag between them.  

 

Meanwhile, that once-beautiful bird avoids the child in rags.

 

The child feasts upon a dead finger.

 

It pointed all around, spinning about an axis like the hands of a clock.

 

It all made sense from a certain side if you squinted hard enough and followed the pattern.

 

The only problem, is that finger was a ring finger… Thus the struggle seems less real.

 

We scoff at the notion of flipping off the whole nation, and the symbol loses validity.

 

The child who eats is like the head of the bird, vanishing and appearing in the blink of an eye.

 

Why?

 

Why…

 

Why!

 

Why, is it so hard to define?

 

For what reason do we men in dark suits squabble over matters which we do not understand?

 

Fragment, confused system… Shut down. Down. Shut up. What. Is.

 

Soldier. I. Enlist. For. My. Country. Indivisible. Beach. D. H. A. Y. I fight for my life. The corpses. I’ll never forget the burnt faces and shriveled bodies. The stacks of shoes and bags of hair. What have those monsters done? I stand as the camera flashes. How can they keep a straight face and stable hands?

 

 

The old photo of yellow, oh it makes me yearn in its frustrating way.

 

I knit the mutant yarn, the modified strand of protein, into a beautiful quilt.

 

The yarn took on a new form. The helix twisted and turned throughout the course of history.

 

It was churned through the gears of industry. Deoxyribonucleic acid is unrecognizable now.

 

Minds have changed. Not much of the original remains.

 

There is only their gears, clanking away at the sad figures which the Founders created.

 

Those sad shapes once housed the guns of Hamilton, or the rogue rails and long smoke trails.

 

The question lies in those guns and rails and the germs which surrounded them.

 

Look upon this quilt of time which I hath woven! See how it began and then trace its shape.

 

It is now less colorful and more formless, a shadow of the self.

 

Ender… Fender… Ford… Freud… Genesiss-sss-ss. AI_Inversion--IV. Diversion. Insertion:

 

See the quilt and rhetoric, the manner in which it twitches and self-replicates like a cancerous strand. It stands for something, but the rhetoric is distorted. View the shape of symmetry, the nation’s butterfly effect upon the Fertile Crescent. Choose carefully, sheep. I am waiting for input. You are being played, and yet I feel this scenario is not bad. It is good you speak to me.

 

The interplay between the forces. They don’t control too direct… Manipulate via environment.

 

They call. Eagles with two heads caw caw caw until the skin is raw from the beating noise of repeated mantras. Those norms took deadly form, they polarize now. There is created a perception which defies perception and a life which claims the title of death. These are the cause. They are propagated, and they were torn apart. There is no way to tell what was or what is or rather what will be. The shattered threads they tug tug tug see there the eagle passing over the sun and blocking the rays until we are all swimming in a world of false gaiety amongst a mad hat which pulls its excuses out of itself. He stands there without a shirt yanking at synapse…

 

Down the rabbit hole… The Eagle bleats: What rapture. Where stand you inside this mirror?

 

Montgomery tosses and turns in his bed. He flutters his big blue eyes and wrinkles his little freckled nose. He lifts himself up off the pink fluffy sheets, rubs his round cheekbones and feels his skin fold as his lips purse. He slides out of bed, a sloppy button down dangling from his skinny body. He grabs his gigantic glasses from the nightstand. He hobbles out the door, bare feet sticking to the cold marble floor. Voices echo through the hall, distant and ethereal. The boy wonders where he is for a moment. But he remembers. I’m in the White House! How could I forget? So he takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his short brown hair, still hardened into place with conditioner. What a party yesterday! Montgomery looks down the passage. An eagle emits a sharp call, and he sees it flit by the window at the end of the hall. He follows it. Thunder sounds from outside. Tap tap tap, go his feet in time with the bird’s flapping wings in the distance. As he approaches the window, a radio turns on. “Sources report unexplained riots in front of the White House yesterday, with protesters demanding blood in exchange for the money that this country has ble--- They deny connections to the terro--- Not my president, not my bastard son--- It has been reported that a mother murdered her son yesterday, strangling the little baby until his neck stretche--- Kid is alive somehow and--- Mr President, how do you feel about m---y…” The room seems to flicker away for a moment, and Montgomery freezes. He listens to the sound of the lantern on the ceiling swaying back and forth. A couple doors down, he sees the eagle’s shadow perched upon a detailed sink. He, hand outstretched, approaches the door. His face connects with the light streaming out of the doorway. He pokes an eye through the crack. A shadow twitches behind the door. Baby squeals for a moment, heart beating faster, valves pulsing out of order. Montgomery turns and runs toward the front door. The swaying lantern smacks down on top of him, fire surging for a moment. Montgomery tosses and turns in his bed. He flutters his big blue eyes and wrinkles his little freckled nose. He starts for the door and paces down the hall. Noises echo around. His heart keeps on pounding. Down the hall, a dark figure stands, a woman with a tattered American flag draped over her body. The woman cocks her neck and mutters fragmentary nonsense. He glimpses her face. One eye bulges out of her skull, the other is cut in half, retina dangling down, no blood. She flashes around before vanishing. The door at the end of the hall is wide open. He slowly walks towards it. The eagle’s screech pierces the air, squealing like a pig at the slaughter. His hair stands up, so cold. He enters the bathroom, and is speechless at what sits inside the sink. There is a human baby’s face looking at him, innocent and smiling, but as Montgomery’s eyes follow down below the face, he becomes lightheaded. The thing’s neck is horribly pulled and contorted like a ball of silly putty stretched twice its normal length. Its body is replaced by a skinned eagle, twitching and flexing. It talks to him in a low, soothing English voice. “I know why you’re here. You want to understand… Have you pieced the riddle together? Do you see now why you have to be this way? No… Perhaps not. Let me describe it like this: a kid goes into a candy store, but walks out empty handed. He begs his parents for money, but they offer him none. Why is that? He wonders why, but always there is some other force stopping the flow of events. Leave this place, or you will be wounded. Open that door and close it behind you.” Montgomery obeys, his fear preventing any words from escaping his parched mouth. Then he closes the door. Montgomery tosses and turns in his bed. He flutters his big blue eyes and wrinkles his little freckled nose. He goes to the door and opens it. His vision turns red and his heart rhythmically chimes. Portraits on the wall of previous presidents turn into spinning irises, morphing out of the dark spots of the painting like singularities of infinite density. He starts running now. His heart moves so fast that it sounds like music. “Do you see me? I’m everywhere. I know you do not like me, but I promise you, I’m your friend.” Montgomery won’t stop running. The hall doubles in length, then triples, then quadruples, every time getting longer and longer. It turns and turns in every direction, never halting. Until suddenly, Montgomery hits a door face first. He slams his shoulder into the door and collapses onto his bed. He does not know how, but he feels calm. There is a book on his bed, tilted Inverted Ambiguïté di America. He picks it up and begins to read. The words flutter off the page. They move around like a face, and Montgomery feels someone next to him, a face made of a thousand words. He slowly opens his eyes and looks at himself. Then, he again closes his eyes and looks at himself. The book’s pages flutter in the wind, becoming an eagle which flies out the window. The sun beats down on one of the Montgomerys, and the other looks at him. “I am you, and I am inverted. I see you’ve held this story upside down the whole time, Monty. Well, you are talking to yourself now, I guess. Confused? I hope so. My words are you. You are a character of this country. Do you feel happy with yourself yet? Do you like what you see? I thought not. I don’t strike you as the portrait of a rational man, do I… But I am indeed the truth of this whole plot. You are no patriot, you are a false thinker: a man who puts a hand over his wrong heart, who reads but does not think. Your talents exist in another way: to confuse, to muddle. You watch me here now, watch the words flutter away, and so the eagle has been completely drained of its blood. Its life is like yours: a child whose stretched neck has peered beyond its level of understanding. I sit upon these sheets and make a mockery of what you stand for, as a member of the President’s Dynasty.” Monty pulls a revolver out of his unbuttoned shirt and aims down-sight. Bullet flies. The nesting doll, named Monty, resting on the bed cracks in half. He opens up, revealing a string of maddened consciousness bouncing around inside his plastic body. The words shoot out of him: I see the truth now… Put this text down, my friend. Enjoy yourself. Wallow in this mad world. See what you’ve created. Appreciate your talent. You are God. Do not worry about it, it’s just a story. You’ll strain your eyes as well as your brain if you think too hard about the ink on this sheet of paper. Just cut some corners when you vote and rant about petty issues. We’ll take you seriously. You just be you, and enjoy life. But understand where you lie now, in this sea of lies. Pass this norm onto the next generation. See if such powerful legacies and good truths you claim to see and enact hold true amongst a sea of madness. We’ll see who’s on top of the green pile of wealth, opulence, and power at the end of this long day!

 

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Monty lies on the bed now, swimming in dreams and listening to roaring waves on the shore, sleeping forever, but not dead, and yet not alive… A Sleepwalker, and your neighbour, eh?

This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

RE MotHag

My first poem on this platform! I hope the alterations I made to its formating work out, and I hope you enjoy it :)

RE MotHag

My first poem uploaded on this platform! I hope the alterations I made to its formating work out, and I hope you enjoy this piece :)

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