Personified like a simile, for instance as an example
of some drunken reveries, lay bare the facts
pimpled and phosphorescent, amplified bass tones
burst a farting reality, unimpressive as hell
on a sinking ferry, spanish con men play baccarat
with millionaires, or whatever
the case may be, language is naught but squeaking
motorcycle mice plunging off a cliff on purpose.
So if poetry is poisonous, panacea for an unblink sky
masking truth numberlessly, rise up to the flood
stinking of sulfur pots, strangle the clown
booked for birthday parties, combat it with shit
in its eye, bubonic juices pour like tears
tearing down the blue yonder, as rats roll
poop into tiny balls, rhymes are the song
making slavery seem suitable.
What we do to get by, in this chain gang game
to sing from the soul, progressively of course
listing liberal leanings, manifesto’s of a lush
theoretical society, shangri-la was a lie
striven for of course, as only should be
like a puppy treadmill, a cuteness kaleidoscope
being shoved fitfully into a furnace.
They sound like sprung tires, popping a hiss
as the oxygen exits, wavering not on flat fatigue
over untrue wheel wells, gasping at fuel
fire in the air, fear in a mother’s eyes
will turn us back, but not soon sorry
fella, await a baptizing inferno shut-eyed
leg-shackled and blindfolded, what doesn’t kill us
makes for a novel future so take notes.