19/08/2023

Hapless who strain,
voice and words for people,
hapless who drill
thinking it's lethal,
this folly encourages,
the ethos of silence,
on paper, counterfeit order stands,
while hastened thoughts simmer
in a cauldron of violence.

If I catch sight of you
with a pavulon vial,
I'll behead you for cheating,
engage, fight me,
draw the trenchant blade,
low profiled, distant, and shallow,
instead of laughter from the coffin.
Pull out your prosthetic faith,
before hissing Christ swallows
the descending heaven prospect.

Give me an authentic shoot-out,
where you bleed till death,
give me a duel,
light up a matchstick,
entourage with a
black powder keg.

On a formica table,
you roll the dice
if you lose,
whip yourself,
and one archangel dies.
If I lose,
tie a bangalore
around filthy neck,
and my words of nonsense
will meet a disgusted hail marrow crusade.

Where I challenged,
pleasingly conforming chains,
we'll answer who follows
a pale reflection of faith.
So pick up the glove
before it taints,
silence isn't priceless,
words foreshadow the pain,
one has to die
for the other's blemishes,
deception, venom, or vain.

Unholster courage,
gas me the rage,
ignite the fire,
matchstick awaits,
assume the form of a neophyte,
bare cognition flickers,
just hold my iron-branded hand,
till clash finds muffled eyes,
and clots reach one of our brains.
Just hold my hand,
the dice will turn into Pontius Pilate's
pointing finger, whose candle fades,
just hold my hand,
one ends up shrouded
in blasphemy cloak,
anointed pariah,
yet authentic instead.

Or end up like Sisyphus,
with a bespoken
boulder-like cross,
bland, spineless,
stripped of sense.