I load my silver tongue with brass
crass and hollowed-points may be my nature
**** my thoughts, take aim
and with plosive sputter,
sling my brain
with metal hatred
Fling my words in forked contention,
misattribute my cold-hearted intentions,
with passion a fervor holds convection,
'Till pride produce the bituminous heavens
But still,
with marksman's gaze will you free my lies,
your scope of view between the ghostly sights
and trigger a sensationalist enterprise
for which all my lies will bleach
From red to white,
Tartarous sheen
There are words severed from man,
and as they hang their heads for the guillotine,
has any body stopped to ask,
"What do they mean"?
But the wheel cannot cease revoluting,
just as the rifle cannot beget its shooting,
Without the fatal trace of careful phrase,
fingered around the triggered maze
These words will fly
hot metal and lye
Awash the ****** floor of dissident
and acidic representation
Till all the light of spoken rhyme,
will dine upon the littered flames
