Blueblood

 
~wake~

Voices in my head-
the tones in my bones,
a cut on my operating hand
or a lash of sweat in the eye;

a way with boring word-clinics,
oohing & aahing
to grilled meat & spilled milk,
chickens fried
the path walked
to spade & use
my tools for recompense...

all that nancy shit we do...

mostly talk & balk...
it's not like it was
back when a few hours
was a few hours
& not nine fucking minutes,

when it was more or less
sex & cupcakes
& a gravy train hope
to catch you at the stadium
& leave like boon companions-

like thieves, whores,
& mercenaries,
three...
pathetic, or scary,

our cans of worms for lunch,
our notions dispelled,
our love for sale,
our strings of pretty things
for all to see:

the games: from, and, if, but, or,
the-

don't, money:
stolen, fucked, or killed-
promise I won't for
see or ~ugh~
AWAKE in a lake of flesh & wage,
 
green tea & good luck...
God bless insurance,
you know,
it's not all codpieces & alcohol intake...
it takes an obscene amount
of pages, numbers
& symbols
and religions
or spiritual awakenings
to make this all happen
and small enough to comprehend...

eat those chances...

does it make a difference to redlined rungs?
Subdued verses mush & weed
a headstrong "we'll see"
through the unexplored ruins
in waiting-

oh, the comfort of civilization,
or oh, the comfort of the wilderness,
or oh, the comfort of Mexico
or oh, the comfort of China

unnaturally comfortable,
a high fructose corn syrup buzz
fleeting global feels
like it just woke up
to a liquor-puke slaver
sleeping in a pisspoor
turnstile...

a better breath
for better sweatshops
bemoaning the "Now What?"-cartels
& send 'em more than you can afford,

send 'em young 'n hungry
& preferably skewered to some petty lord
with an empathy for burning
my love
(& don't you love?)
spurning, how?

Stockpiling wings & legs
& bones & chow.

Now, if the truth is to be observed
& self-evident
it must be observed
& self-evident

need I say
alarm-clock-workforce-face (?)
piles it on now,
now, & now

through a geyser of gewgaw
and a raptor of suit,
the news & the blues
for breakfast tamed
ho-ho-ho-
that bitch in tune,

blech, God kill me
in nine minutes
& bless the office of the President
or whatever the fuck it is
and call me when you've something new...

by that I mean when you've gone & hurt yourself...

you'll hate the wait in line
~formed~
rolled (newspaper) eyes,

so slow
& slow to grow
in editorializing
or opinionating,
from fishing to commentary
though without drawing tongue
or dime one,

a deli wax-wrapped stench
on the dock of life,

that look or hook and these shills
give me the shivers.

Scores of millions fail
& see if they care
(or succeed & see if they care)

O! Citizens...royalty,
not on any of your lives, see,
I'm not the one,
I would say more
for sake of Parnassus
but night, it comes
& forces listen-

we talk & balk
with the lights down low, now...

all the kings or queefs
are holding their throats
all loosey-goosey, now,
their plots failed
& plagues are spreading, now...

cozy thrones of trillion-dollar
backdoor fantasy
heading
"oh, how we'd rip Them apart
in nine short minutes"...

morning, I am spilling my guts with a beam
and it spreads through my dreams-
flame & (whisper, please) quiet-
scattered clouds of death & ash,

a voice in my bones,
a choice through the cracks...
~snooze~