Vague histrionic pronouncements breed conspiracy theories and underground movements
aborted feebly, forever filibustering empty space with tasseled sheets of ice
arraigned in rows, rafter spies whetting razors on brown
straps pinned next to the mirror whispering siren songs, reciting a list
of future checkmarks to make with a black iron soul deaf to fear and pain
as long as it’s your own because we’re all pawns and it sucks
the big one, none of us is together with anyone or reconciled
to our own boiling scar tissue, looking like Lorenzo for a cure, we will find soulless.
Liquid therapy or et cetera to change the angle of incidental reflectance
that I have with reality sometimes, though on others it’s a myth-making mirror
and I can see satirical catchphrases raining like mana with movie
deals and halloween costumes, but I feel like Alex being cured
and screaming in pain, flowing rusty record scratch sensation
of tin foil flavored ice cream every night after dinner, so eyes up to see
the path before you is but terrors anyway, so sizzle your veins and solid your blood.
Time is the final arbiter, the scale pit and glory at once
together bumping bright holes in the sky, clouds tearing like
tissues apart with lava liquid pouring from the sky in a stream
to the ground, flowing the harbinger of what’s been earned
as well as given so in the end we’ll all get it, and after the reckoning
I’ll see you unless I don’t, because good luck is all that we have.