1745

The mob within the heart
Police cannot suppress
The riot given at the first
Is authorized as peace

Uncertified of scene
Or signified of sound
But growing like a hurricane
In a congenial ground.

I'm not sure you understand
Just exactly how I work
I'm not normal
But then, who is?
So let's put formality aside
Have at me, uncertified surgeon!
Let your knives peel back my skin!
Use your blades to cut the organs
So you'll see the stuff within
In my heart is the place where I keep the love
Protected from fiends who like vultures above
Wouldst dare to steal my sacred store
That will deplete forevermore
My liver is a strange one, and yet
You'd know what goes inside, I'd bet
Therein lies all the things I hate
Filtered from life and made to wait
Inside the liver, oh so dense
To keep the hate from the present tense
To keep it all just locked away
So I can try to be okay
Then in my lungs is icy air
That I breathed in, frozen, from your cold stare
I thought you were jesting your eyes must be wrong
But it turns out you meant it like that one Beatles' song
Because I truly did not realize
As I gazed deep into your eyes
Into the soul that just days before
You swore was mine, threw open doors
Your eyes this time would shut me out
What was this alienation about?
But I guess you just snapped and all loving stopped
You were still sane, but your toleration popped
Which is totally fine and I have no problem knowing
That these fractures and breaks had slowly been growing
But I thought if we tended the garden of love
And forgot all the issues I alluded above
That we'd be fine and could just carrry on
And though I still believed that you went and you're gone
So again, I say unto you, uncertified surgeon!
Cut deep into me and pull out my soul
My heart's been ripped out, why not seal the deal
*Tear out my soul with a smile and a flick
And stitch me back up with the thread of past wrongs
That each day I might look down and see
That what was done was done by me

This thing—unsanctified, uncertified
(Reminiscent of an old, familiar sweater
Comfortable, perhaps a bit threadworm here and there,
Yet wholly functional)
Has become unwound,
Not in some spectacular supernova
Replete with shouting and finger-shaking,
But slowly, almost imperceptibly becoming patchy and care-worn
Until such point it no longer provides much
In terms of comfort or warmth,
A failure of evolution more than an excess of passion,
A matter of recalculation as opposed to recrimination.

Let us proceed onward, then, with as much decorum as we can muster.
Parse the checking statements, divvy up love seats and ottomans
With an emphasis on equity rather than enmity,
Leaving the plates and cups intact
Passing them on (a bit dewy-eyed, perhaps)
To begin anew in some niece’s college apartment
Or with other friends who shall gallantly attempt
To complete and compute what we could not,
Divining some math which leads not to our own aftermath
Of reasoned rumination in search of some cold consolation.

☎ ☎ ☎ ☎ ☎
In this weird America we jump back to pray, mason Ronald Reagan
could've "married" Clancy, not Nancy, making ****** ****** okay
as fellows laying men hearkens back to the hidden hand's occultical
rites of jabbing ritualistical plant mendicants stylized entheogenical
from graphical zero-order marks that temporize ape traits eugenical
It is on the rug from the litter box so I am self-assured that it is crap
which is easier to ret up than rhyming verse which ain't no easy nap
with veins popping out my head through this back assward ball cap
Attack-strikes against ******* can't lift Iberian Moors from the mire
nor re-animate homosexy Mohandas Gandhi from his funereal pyre
so that I could make bread selling his burnt-up ***, enough to retire
like that Nancy-boy: the forever-prancing-man-kissin' *** Jon Cryer
whose romantical lust for John Travolta entails proctological desire
that digs northwardly east from Oceania's fantastical rim-job of fire
to recruit boys for **** movies as Kelly Preston's a pig-***** denier
regarding her husband's penchant for tweaking her 2 **** with pliers
to make 'em more pointy like the pointy knobs that are Talia Shire's
guns that try the souls of reverends known to be well-practised liars
who fly in the face of pilots uncertified to be bona fide blimp flyers
despite the love-child ******* lazy Jimmy Swaggart begets or sires
as he has got the street-smarts that knocking up a ******* requires
& the fatherly touch that, for girls just off the bus, calms & inspires
when they get $10 from a John named Billy amongst *****-buyers
The flat Earth is the repository of human life-force & soul reflectin'
God's list of Man's anatomical parts that puts a *****'s eyes & hole
on an equal plane that rises to eye-level along a line that's horizonal
I fell off the toilet in mid-**** twistin' my ankle sprained, hey let us
fund ditzy N.A.S.A. with its nutty assumptions stupidly ascertained
via Antarctic moon rocks that Wernher von Braun secretly obtained
to ensure that the orb Earth masonic joke could be widely sustained
in the boyish minds of men with whom a Boy Scout logic remained
as a black blemish on the pox-scarred lame & the tattoo-ink stained
& the hepar-diseased mufflers diving with mermaids who refrained
☎ ☎ ☎ ☎ ☎