Fearful politicians acting fearless
Aurelius rising to the pulpit delirious
Syphilitic pragmatist losing coherence
Armed with men with guns and speeches
Parables of made up kids who salute the waving gun
Penny for a pie and Billy’s lost bike
Swoon for the golden years or raise a tax hike
Raise a holler for the squalor and the cost of living
Every candidate a martyr just waiting for the giving
Turkey days and Spam nights wanting
Crusades for croutons cup o soup fulfillment
Office romps and Mr. Noodle sick with air conditioning
Promises of pay grades and toner woes dismissed
Cubicle spectacle boxed in all sides symmetrical
Some shoot em up some burst ventricle
Depressed distressed cardiac arrest
Absentee paycheque smile with a donut
Dunkin days and lazy rest for the weary
The creeping grey basement with the cracks and crevices nestled in like Nestle bricks of kat kit arrangements. Monster madness slink under the stairs, the people no fear, no people nowhere. The man that wasn’t there forgets his place and his need, the scared little boy who so ran from he is now a woodsman in Amityville. Chop block chop locks, choppa heads off knocks. Ching ching chainsaw makes music for the hillbilly trio fiddlin and faddlin up the hills with eyes.
Military experiments dwell in the firmament, gunpowder and cocaine mixing with the elements. Red blooded hooligans medal of honour recipients. Bullet holed torsos walk with the dead again. Pitchforks and gunny men take arms and falling skin, rotting mouths look slack jawed like first cousin marryin. Blue skin and purple throbs hound the beasts of creeping fog.
In the still of the night creeps come and lay a fright, vampire neighbours chilling little tykes. Big bad mouths and fangs so sordid clench the necks of crunchy camp kids. Camp nowhere on the Lake Placid, the final call for Final Girls settling scores with kat kit smores.
Inshallah, titty bah, shaclack clack pointed and busted at jarheads gone soft and muggy. Green grey warmachine looking crusted and dusty covered in scars of battle. Don the holy mech warrior under thunder Gundam guise sans emo hair and brooding. Teens do battle these days under the flag under the gun. Lock stock shock tops shock troopers invading whole men, plundering town and tarry never a worry. Amendments be damned this is just for the sport of it. Pitiable people envisioned as deer on the season, collateral damage excuses and dirt naps. Pillow fights for tots turn to deathbed confessions, feathers waft among the plumage of blood trials and maze runners.
Aftermath confounding confusing but forgotten at the new news cycle, three years and new terrors and hurricanes for sweeps. Guns and ammo litter terrain as psychos train and brainwash foreign teens in chatrooms like some Catfish sting operation for the alter Allah. Bizarro world of martyrs and prophets saying things they didn’t say. The golden book spells hidden messages for the initiated and skewed minds of a degraded people made bloody and savage by zealous hypocrites lusting for control. So sayeth the man, the lord, the right hand of a suspicious following with lemming futures; walking dumbstruck into holes of fortune and off cliffs so readily. Brown blips turned skull white in the muddy remnants, calcium deposits for the future anthropologists turned apologists. Aussie drole dresden dolls chaffing at the insignificance.
Pecking order pillars make medley with thrillers. Tales of horror sucking up the reefer madness. Freak wharfs engulfing little compatriots dazed with the sediments, ride waves of ether and hallucinogens. Magic mushroom good enough for Alice, through the looking glass and into the dangerous. So hectic so serious, why so serious? Give the devil his due Jack on the ledger dancing in the pale moonlight. Tip top hat drop Freddie on the Ritz, preacher feature creature screecher ballroom blitz. Make way for the kings, make way for Ozymandias the king of kings, death destroyer death eater sicky sin sin sin. Shelley the poet, Shelley the horror creator basking in her own maker, toss and turn for the creature that famed her.
We tire of the crafted, we abominate our creation, we snicker at first drafts and harangue the editors. Free run through the living room, scissor up my paperwork so that none shall see it or breath the stench of failure wrapped so tenderly in those sharp pages. Gilded cadaverous but the readers avarice, stuck in the novel leave life lifeless. Another shell husked and shoulder flumped peering into pages wanting secrets of the soul and the hereafter from the master author. Livid with the flaws and manic with the liquid paper, tearing up pages of blathering drivel disaster the all in my head theatre.