Fire-eater

To start a sentence with pretense, you color-code events, have revivals in tents, or protectionist basements and modify our rifles to trifle with a bargain for an eyeful of targets and swastikas, crosses and collateral losses, hands getting old, feet growing cold, this wasn’t at all like the fable that’s told, songs sung through flutes of willow wood carving, I’m starving, but this fills us non-factual, not actual, to really observe never tactful, come right this way to processions, obsessions, employ our osmosis to just the right doses, a mental sclerosis, your closest but I gained for us a fair notice and once in, we will sin, we bloat ourselves under blankets at banquets with tourniquet spankings and a fluorescent-bright mortgage to choke on, not joking or Dewey decimal smoking. This is for real.
I won’t steal. The other nine commandments are God’s Achilles’ heel, twist my ankle and trip, bust my lip, somersault out of this lie, watch me flip and release rubbing chains, carve a bone comb to brush out the mange, we’ll panhandle change from your subservient masters, their concubines acting strange and dominant like prominent tycoons who spent the month of lent in a plastic-bag tent that I leased for their rent, the cash to me went, subsequently then spent - mostly the nude bar, a new car, some brown tar, once thought I’d be farther than this, had aspirations to be Czar of Dispute and Debate, I realize I’m late, but where is my plate? Incessantly I think about you and know that I stink and there’s piss in the sink, nevertheless, my cheeks pink, my fur coat of mink and I suck in my cheeks while putting pen onto paper to trade for a drink.
We need funeral dirges, political purges and I will not wait one more second to hate as I wait for that conjured-up angst on your face to abate back to rusty car crawlings, amphetamine scrawlings, east coast I’m bawling, appalled and I’m stalling, enthralled as I watch your war-paint attack, so I, too, paint my face black out of rage, no I won’t take the stage since there’s no mage to mirror, and no sage speaks clear when defined by his fear and you won’t find a queer in here or in me a collaborator to sympathize with your bombastic reprise, bombing a franchise unwise.
Certainly we’ve witnessed a single-cell existence and I’m surprised that we bother to arise, it’d be a mistake to stay awake but we starve ourselves to fast in the badlands, Ishmael knocked down hard by Abraham’s backhand, that’s his curse as you notice Sarah digs through her purse to find payoffs and layoffs and a lozenge for my cough as I hack up my phlegm in Orthodox passion and you and I dive single file in uniform fashion to cash in your flashin’ partisan badges and sectarian gadgets.
I’ll stage it, a mutiny, a coup to cure this thought-pattern-flu. I rarely find crooks, but often girls with ornament books who will take my life while they’re stagnant with strife-
Sip the cure softly, awareness is costly, so keep counting the losses, as we hang from our crosses.
But if plucked as a sweet root, it renders all points moot, you scripture-fed whore’s son, tell me the kid won over your apparitions with petitions and frightening admissions to a full house it’s eights over aces I slap fucking faces to have Levitical orgasms and I adhere to God’s Law with glad spasms while steaming and stammering you’re hammering my patience all the way down and yesterday I saw you in town and I remember you being so sensuously viscous, so it was then that I gave my permission.
Today we shed skin, tomorrow bones from within.