Remember, some line up.
Line up and wait for their own day in hell.
They scream for victory.
The far away deep, lost heart places that
dry up fast when cowards are left to tend them.
Accelerating, gnarled prizes, metal and tubes,
wires and guts and brains that smoke the sun's color,
losing it in the pitch of the rainbow-slicked sludge.
Up, up, and away, a dark celebration in song, something
shouted gleefully at the sky on the way to the gallows.
Desire, hate, and the teasing, fatted, greasy greed,
they all feed the Black God's Mirth, they'd better.
They'd better know he'll consume them as quick,
when the hard, cold mud-water fist envelops them
embraces them, makes them still again.
Don't waste your deep song throats on a trivial Godsson,
humanity-theif or cracked up narc, discarding dignity
as quickly as you give it up. Don't do it.
Give him breathmints and soap and humility, please.
He needs those.
Don't take anything that isn't yours or can't be sold
quickly, easily locally. The bedroom path is
strewn with flowers no one loves
You are worth a little revenge now and then, get some.
Talk??? It's cheap shit. No one's buying.