Trying not to look into the pupils of the sun
A smoke screen and *****
Pursuing soft unspoken ones
Halfway to here is there
Do I spin or do the clouds?
Perception prescribes the anecdote
Do I laugh or does the clown?

Burnt adolescence, the smell of survivors
The satiric regime beholds.
White-gloved landlords, picking at grapefruit
By what means was this chapter told?

By a pigheaded guerilla lad
In a trench coat and top hat
With an ego to the distance of the sun
Alcohol is flammable
To the ones with sharpened mandibles  
For myself, it was all jolly good fun

God cast a wave to **** all who were wakeful
Whilst I was tense asleep
God then cast a final wave to all who kindred slumber  
All souls to a heavenly keep
But I did arise in an earthly world
The second before deliverance
Now I am the last gothic plight
In the age of non existence  

God’s fowl doing was for the good of mankind
A disease on His first creation
To wipe the slate clean, tabula rasa
Was a decision without hesitation

I was left to pillage and walk
Under the overcast clouds of all angels
Unfortunate son to the Father of life
Of whom am I to be blameful?

People would tell me I looked skeletal
Not necessarily in an overly skinny sort of being
But in an organic, carbon matter fashion
Bone colored
Grooved
Plated
My ribs shone through my abdomen, still
My stomach protruded tightly
Translucent skin like a lampshade revealing
Three beams of muscle tissue
I should have been observed in a science class
I thought this while walking down the hall, away from the shower I left behind
Into my cave colored bedroom
Head first, body soon to follow
An archaic method-
My stack of literature playing the role of mammoth
About to be speared and eaten by my fingertips

On the shelf of a mountain
Preserved in glass
Is where my bed is
Precariously by chance
Until I’m hoisted to the basement
By crank and by chain
In gaping oblivion
“Oh what I need
Oh what I’d change"

The passenger window was coaxed down
Creating a vacuum
From the outer orb of the car
    Whisping violently to the back seat.
I imagined this accumulated mass of air giving me directions
Just as my mother would.
          “Next left”
Turning my head back to the road
The stoplights were my own private assortment of fireworks, it being so late in the night
I was their sole admirer.  The sound that the wind now made reminded me of the
Shutter of an old camera, looped, repeated, into one single strand of noise.
I was being documented. Perhaps nature is just as fascinated with us as
We
Are
It.
Pulling up to the driveway, the car and I were eaten and digested.
Every living and inanimate thing around me was taking photos.
With their hands over their mouths, politely, like a secret crush.
Fame doesn’t bother blades of grass.

Excuse me, misses please
    I’m a traveling man  
We both know at the end of this show
    I’m what the road demands
Now Lucy you can chose
    To wait around for this
I’ve got my storm-cloud voice
    And you’re standing in the mist

I’ve got a ticket for an aero plane
It’s my time to ascend into space
As it occurs I guess we can complain
Because our lives are ours to waste