Dead Islands

Dear friend,    
if you can't punch Hitler,      
we've strung another in the bag

for the pulse of your love.
 
The world continues, proving every person who savored moments regressive.
 
Your rage,      
nonetheless,      
is future, present and past      
as the Reaper who selects humanity
 
in a dormitory town that burns its quaintness through into your perfection.      
       
Their discomfort justifies blow horn truth      
until the lack of their sleep      
diffuses the sap of their judgement
and deposits an open trunk unto poplar branch cutting propagation.

You are not a friend at all.      
I return to you by sighs of your sacraments.  
   
Bad blood      
isn't rare.      
One hero and villain may drink eight to ten cups a day.      
       
It wouldn't be hard to presume that our so-called community leaders are actually provisional governance      
of a detached party headquarters,

and that your Reaper's eye isn't exclusive,    
nor an ascent of scholarly meditation.