tagNon-Erotic PoetryCandy Jet Fuel Prose

Candy Jet Fuel Prose

bySmaugfire©

Transpose what you do in the wake of the hells and the streamers falling
down twin towers of condensed hatred and jet fuel for candy and god and
jihad and the guns pumping east falling down the middle upon the heads of
politicians and aristocrats. Feral screams in night on blankets, always
east, always dining on plates served cold, served raw.

Dying alone in the back-seat of a car, looking into mirrors of objects
colliding in the horrific shattering of glass and my projectile impression
pounding through the windshield of life-changing numbness. No one is belted
in. I can see the old blood flowing down empty streets, running down drains
like teeth sucking saliva down tar stuck lungs where the air swirls like ice
and dies with monoxide. The breath of a shuddering creature that might have
been human, leaving the form, leaving god's image for greener pastures,
paving the way for the cancer to shut down a failed system. For every
trailing tick the earth groans in a somber distortion from a saxophone.

Frivolity blooms in failing summer September buying remembrance, buying
colors, owning the sparrow in the place of an eagle who grabbed at the world
and seized us all in talons, iron. Tasting sand, bathing radiant radial
glow down skin pulled tight over sinewy muscles, skin blackened and bruised
by American Dreams and human bile centered in the powers of the darkened
mind beyond the boundaries of reason and compassion.

Aphids dining on their money tree, shitting on my car, driving near and far
to further meaningless movement in downtowns, multiplexes, aiding the
carcinogen latent social life and the intake of poison to my liver.
Breathing is poison, so they say, and death is change in my pocket grown
every passing day. A shame I'll have money to buy the day I bid this world
goodbye, and you all will go on with your deals, your mergers, your rape of
the last vestiges for innocence in the human psyche, far from instinct.

You get the germs of a perfect life two millennia gone, you get the wine
from saviors to be drunk in the darkness, with hooks and snares to bring the
rest of the world into the bloated body of Christ. Body of cheapness for
wisdom, and stringent rules to live in hypocrisy like media anchors with an
hour of 'little Timmy down a well' and the flippant phrase on the death of
thousands who weren't countrymen.

Everyone is miserable, there you go, in school, for young minds to waste on
the pressures of forefathers and mistakes passed down, always growing,
always ready to devour and torture the leaders of tomorrow. The ideologists
who will solve all our problems by hopefully missing the meteor hurling our
way with a resolution to fix everyone. Extinction from budget cuts in the
center of a void doing more than staring back.

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