Approach

A white burst of lightning strobes downward and God rears His head in the sky.
He is colossal,
Implacable, steel and
Thunder.
Within him ride Angels, quick for the hunt.

Do you recall a time when they were as we are?

--Humans?

--Mortals?

As we trade our guns, so they traded numbers, on vast howling engines in our once great cities. And they traded their numbers to the ancient Gene Witches. They trialed and they errored and a whole generation of beautiful beings was born--

Beautiful boys--

Beautiful girls--

Their faces were unmarked as ours, their minds were so quick like the vast howling engines in our once great cities, their bodies so strong and so slender.

Ah, and here are their eyes, open to us now, as their colossal god eclipses the sky. Their eyes shine down rays of God's love to his children.

Their eyes shine like the sun.

Do you recall the sun? Once all the sky was alight with a warmth that let our crops grow.
Now deep beneath our old city
Moloch
Breaths his fire and the plants of the Gene Witches feed from his warmth.

Look, how the Gene Witch's hut sinks into its mire. God does not suffer a Gene Witch to live. Not anymore. Only the Witchminds,
Bred from the vats of
Angels, live in the core of
God, closest to His light and heat.
And see, the Capital sinks as well, protected from the Angels.

Do you recall music from before the Gods rose into the sky and we were left here to our once great city, and the Old Gods beneath the earth, and the old howling engines and Gene Witches?
Music before the Blessed Mixers found their beats of calamity and the Bravers fought angels? They music they played says nothing to us about our lives,
And so they mixed a new beat for our scattered tribes.

See, all the eyes are sinking to earth, and the  ships of the Angels approach, bringing the
Witchminds, and the
Huntsmen, and the
Threshing dogs, and the
Whip guns. And the
Blessed Mixer will mix his beats, and the
Bravers will Brave against the Angels, and if
We are lucky and the
Howling engines bless us, we may
Capture a whip gun
For ourselves.
But now me must go in and hide, or be harvested for our Stems.

Lead me inside, girl,
Out of this storm.

And tomorrow, if the Bravers do not win, we will hang the Blessed Mixer.


So tell me again why there isn't more Science Fiction Poetry? As always, feel free to leave comments, complaints, or, best of all, your own interpretations, or e-mail me at keeperofmanynames@gmail.com . And, if you like what you've read here, share it on Facebook, Google+, Twitter, Xanga, Netscape, or whatever else you crazy kids are using to surf the blogoblag these days.