by William Skink

Charlie lit an onion bomb
that blew the noosphere into
300 million pieces of jagged atmosfear

who did Charlie haight so much
in San Francisco?
Shadow Sid and JJ Angel?

onion bombs touch the part of us
outside time

stories splatter like brain matter
and the Nephilim scoop it up greedily
for their blackhole soup bowls

black magic onion bombs
spreading fear-death
in deep lust for the time-spot
and the prize of forever—

that is what they are after
with their Palantir spy eyes
pimping glamour death
to soften fresh souls
for their banquets

surface sparks and clown noses with orange hair
have angry poles sharpening their teeth
for a strategic cannibalizing
of our power—

the power to love beyond self
is a power denied them as they gobble the essence
of life
while missing the whole point

because their feeling is an emptiness of feeling
consuming all

now, in the epoch of lead rain,
the endless hunger of self-styled wolves
uses each ritualized death spectacle
to further an order their chaos will make us demand

while awareness grows
a million dead-ends are conjured
to stupefy the seekers

what once was a rigor of intuition
has been blunted by trauma and trolls under
each hopeful bridge

trolls who bludgeon honest exchanges
into rust-red stains

to state it plainly: we are being driven insane

understand onion bombs
have layers of meaning
and reverberations beyond what our senses
can detect

I once thought true detectives
could discover the origin without core loss
of compass tied to heart

but the dark magnetism of charred remains
is still occulted to a left brain moving forward
with heart roots

the dead body of old Jeff
found in his cell
killed on the day it happened 50 years ago—

they’ll say by his own hand
but those familiar with twilight language know
the true meaning of suicide watch
and can feel the detonation of an onion bomb

when it blows another hole
in our holy web,

the end