And beyond the Marlboro clouds,
a God so violent and true,
there is a shriveled, purple stare
prefacing the burnt orange fog.

Where felt-up boys and girls
go to play, a perfect Devil, watching,
boundless in carbonated memory,
drunkenly gazing at trauma, fire --
celebrating each skin-sticky melt
that happens in each razed brain.

Vanished on top of an green-spread hill,
******* in the damp Irish air,
a neutral party does emerge,
taking in the tumblr wave,
witnessing water-logged Amazombies,
bruised with ambition.