Smitten in the desert, a cold shouldered devil able to be present so I present him my presence,
balanced on the church steeple with my heart encased in pedaling petals.
Addicted to the white so I am post-acute; sickness follows me when I don’t use the pen on the paper, abuse, I need my fix and I don’t give a damn who knows or knew.
A finely ground composite of particular interest, through the sun in a pinnacle on business. I can go ahead and meet your maker, discuss my fate later when the sun shines sharp and white like the blood dripping off the teeth of a gator.
I’m very determined, a young Jew orphaned in Warsaw organizing SS abortions switching vials of morphine to save the ghetto Savior. The council all has a say, so don’t perjure yourself or get murdered into the curdling earth.
The war is not real? The war is agent orange leaking from this taxi cab into my lab causing exhalations of tinted gas out of my girlfriend’s lungs; a demon here, a demon there, they come in the same beautiful cloth but they just want your face off-white numb and your heart beating their special brand of blood called tragic.
Can’t have it so it’s automatics and cluster bombs and Cold War politics that are worn out like old nuns’ habits and so I ask this, are you ready to go out and fire? Your social media implies something like a desire for recognition but when the air behind your eyes is hissing and the gunshots aren’t missing and the legs of your little brother are in the bushes blistering then the sun comes out and the truth is revealed and your little lying propaganda can’t save you but might I suggest you become REAL.
Real is a noun, depending on how you see it. It’s something or nothing, a roulette dare or candy cotton add a bullet to a cop’s Glock’s clip to remove someone’s hair and the government doesn’t like you and it certainly doesn’t like me – go get a political science degree and avoid surveillance: the black plague of academic slaves waiting for an armed messiah on a list for plastic surgery before your bail’s set.
But when the sun goes down and the gun is in the ground let them shed ten tears and ten more rounds and let the circus play and let the children find God and let God hunt them down and let the world be as it was the day I came up out of this ground.
Don’t panic or pray, don’t let this be this way, don’t run, don’t fight, just look down the sharp edge of the knife as your origin tries to kill herself on your kitchen floor, serrated so it is sparing blood like bad drills drilling in bad holes missing all the ore.
Back to Babylon for more and more and more.