By the shot of the gun.

Inhibitions are cynically cataleptic  
in their wheel chairs:  
overdosed on sleeping pills.  
Blood, sweat and tears infiltrate  
through the crust to infect the mantle.  
Coveting metaphorical switches,  
striking them at random intervals;  
driving convectional currents neurotic.  
 
Half-witted heartbeats lapse into tumours,  
clutching vital organs for their lives.  
Nightmares seduce my mind,  
winks laced with alcohol are  
handed out for free (no charge).  
“Come hither” they sigh to the mist,  
whilst setting it alight.  
By the shot of the gun,  
all seems so much clearer in  
gut-wrenching detail.  
 
Words flounce blushing into the air,  
while a corpse wanes  
on a seabed of copper;  
protected by dense eyelashes.