Garbled Contact
by Greg Braquet
We assassinate the conscience
In the back of the distracted head
While watching the virtual everything…
Meanwhile…
Old, mad scientists, suffering from
Aggravated guilt complexes brought
On by Alien abductions of thought,
Metamorphose into liberals,
Bleeding what little
Is left in their hearts
For what they fathered
Long, long ago
In a Nevada desert
Far, far away,
When thrumming the isotopes
Into mushroom clouds
Seemed pleasantly chic…
Later…
Doc Bruce Banner,
Belted by gamma waves,
Insists it’s the lithium talking
Out of his two-face clone,
Who denies he took steroids
For bulking the hulk
While blending into the
Green House Effect…
Much Later…
Russian and American astronauts,
Tanked on bootleg vodka
And wet wired into video
Porn/palm pilots that were
Stolen from the recently
Bankrupt Sony Space Station,
Explode while performing
An impromptu space walk
As they attempt to be the first
Humans to ignite flatulence in space…
Back At The Ranch…
A cryptic signal from a remote system
Turns out to be a rebound of an
Old Ozzy Osborne recording of
Paranoid, that when played backwards on
78 speed, keeps repeating the phrase,
“The only good human is a dead human!”
In A Related Story…
Noticeably baffled and embarrassed officials
Say that they can neither confirm nor deny
The existence of reports detailing speculations that
The Hubble microscope and a rogue spy satellite,
Joined in a quaint and private same sex ceremony,
(In space no one can hear you scream your vows)
And are now seeking custody of all carbon based units.
This Just In…
There was never a ghost in the machine,
Only ourselves,
Now headless, and loving every minute of it.
Greg
Braquet exists in New Orleans, but like most poets lives in a world
of his own schmoosing. His poetry has appeared in such publications as
The
New Laurel Review, THEMA, The Tap Root Review,
Poetry
Life & Times, Red River Review,