Poetry by Christopher Ropes

Hear the thunder
of a million gods,
hoofbeats pounding,
trampling and disfiguring
psychic terrain.
Behold
the elemental spirits.
Tremble at the feet
of the Lords
of Living Heaven and Hell.
Their servants;
angels, demons, avatars,
mingling, raping,
breeding with modern man
and woman.
Feel their barbed caress
on naked flesh.
Blood and tears
are wept
on new altars
to consecrate
and make them fertile.
And above them all,
above all of us,
rising to prominence -
The God of the Flatline.
Worship Him.

His magic numbers are
9-5
and sacrifices to Him
are to be made
every Monday morning.
He is dominance and submission.
He is the dying embers
of youth
in a cynic's eyes.
He is the rapist
living forever inside
His victim,
choosing her fate for her.
He is the abolition
of ecstasy
and agony;
our ecstasy,
our agony.
He is our master,
grooming us,
making certain
our leashes
match our uniforms.