pride before the fall
pride before the fall. i didn't invent the wheel, i patented it to reap the profits. mark twain is in hell. you'd trust me to trust this. someone's calling all cars for a death rattle on deaf ears. i am the cowboy killer, and this is my first rodeo in years. you think i am listening but i am really just watching the candlelight between us dim, trying not to stare at your forked tongue or the venom it drips. it flows like lava upon a city of outstretched arms, grasping vainly towards divinity. praise the rudderless who navigate the black eyed oceans en masse, hailing the sunset and losing their voices to the wind. plotting piety in wet sand, making reservations somewhere near the scene of the accident, scene of the crime, to be seen and not heard. deserted on a desert continent, an island with no horizon. hang yourself potraits on the drywall using sheetrock anchors fisted. street-sweepers sweep the bodies of dust under the tread of a 1,000 sons enlisted. execute my memory and shower me with gifts of foresight. change the channel while i light a coma candle. open your arms and love me into eternity. the fingerprints on your throat are like 10 tiny maps of a heaven prepared for evacuation. my blood, it holds your pulse. now enjoy the exploits as the caped crusader super savior stranger fills his quota, this is where i become a jesus christ supernova. a shadowboxer bruised and blind, left to walk the streets alone and out of time. there is no more trick, only trade, sorrow for an illusion or banality for the blade. afford me this soliliquy and i'll drown you in my iniquity. an orchestra of throats, strangled and slit with piano-wire. a cardiac-arrest overture in D minor, string accompaniment courtesy of adrenaline, blood, and vomit. i'm still so far from hitting bottom, far from anything resembling a clear moment. from the hills i have watched the skies, the horizon will burn while we are alive. enjoy the fireworks display for all to see and repeat seven Hail Mary’s after me. say good morning, you exiled god, patron saint of the broken fists and paper heart. spare me the rod. i release you from the sins of your father; seventh son of a seventh son, but the Eucharist is as far as you go. playing the silent movie villain, scrambling to tie myself to train tracks, praying for technicolor in an afterlife of terror attacks. under the burgundy stretch of spaghetti western skies, i'll draw a cartoon were the carrion fairy dies. no stranger to sin, i barter my indulgences with 30 pieces of silver that turns an empyrean cheek from my wrath's bludgeon to the ingorgement of the glutton at his fiscal feast, spare me sheba for i am a simple beast.
posted by iamthatis at 12:21:00 PM
5 Comments:
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