Let us salt our open wounds for fun,
for daybreak needs an excuse
to rear its ugly face.
Shylock and the altar both,
grant holy ground to saving grace.
That’s not to say in jest we must
forgive the body for healing
so hard to put in place.
I can safely taunt my shadow now,
for fluorescent bulbs vignette masterfully,
with rose-tinted glass shards/
which line my muddied footprints in reverse,
to guiding stars we douse with mace.
The starlings here,
to the tune of ruins
to try and shy/
A light upon/
the eyesore known as worship
We vomit in our coattails/
for room and board.
Is your hate state issued upon gentrification?
Can your qualms with Daddy be soothed internally?
My mother once told me
if it were not for her stretched out cunt,
I’d walk this world with no fame
The steady practice of placation melds
the false flesh to your mistaken relation.
Exuberance time and time again misunderstood as
the false prophet.
Taking inclusionary indecencies at face value,
the appearance of acceptance dwelling in the forefront of
our forefathers’ prefrontal cortex,
adhering blinders to the hooven metal clanging the streets in tow.
A widespread culling spanning generations to mask the acceleration of the mortality rate. Festering newer headcases with each automized lesson plan, our overseers are live in the field. Each new massacre brought to you in real-time loses its sparkle before the next one has time to get the ball rolling. Toddlers tainted from day 1 for no longer getting a day off of school unless the death toll reaches 1000.