My Input
If you had any decency
you'd stab me in the front:
grinning like a rodent in a sewer
of sublime s**t
while the blade shifts
and dislodges twenty-one grams from my chest.
Curiosity was framed
like animated rabbits in 80s movies, while
I dripped across the floor to the tune of Tom Jones.
No vermin becoming martyrs to take a second of the spotlight,
because we know that what's written isn't exactly what is.
Now I'm playing mice with broken harp strings
looking to become much more than mink, yet
the modus operandi screams of goddamned pigs!
So now the thought process is bladed;
jaded way to rule the ants.
I'm calling a colony for a queen to figure out
the tomes, drones and rants.
No good deed goes unpunished.
You're the God to my nest,
succumbing to barbaric boredom
and tearing limbs indiscriminately
while your jeans twitch
from the feel of squirming
between your thumb and finger.
My antenna always stayed intact -
keeping my feet marching
(even on the tips of your dirt covered digits).
I dig up through the crust
to reach the abode of the living,
shaking off the slime of ages
while the world waits in worship.
My knuckles scrape the skyline
as the peerless sun o' blinds me;
I'm doing damage to the atmosphere with every shuffled step.
Calling me out on terror means the burden isn't mine to bear,
so shelter sought will forever be just out of reach like all your dreams.
With dust-covered eyes, I peer to the top of this kingdom,
knowing that death can't even quell a passion, unforgiven.
Dong dong, the witch ain't dead.
She's still stood at the bottom of a highland hill
with her ladle and bubbling broth,
her baritone chants breathing life into leaves
and chasing birds from their feeble nests.
Sink or swim - we're screwed;
the trembling torches and absolving sneers
offer no more salvation than the riverbed,
armoured in silt and forgotten bodies.
We're treading on tides with starving sharks
while the villagers watch as they drown from the shore.
See, there's not escaping the inevitable moment of consumption;
from here on out, the dreams become less vivid than tides.
Maybe that's the because of the lack of a center of gravity,
or the inane way the gulls flock like death, above.
Either way, it's a jolly good time,
as the lockers calls for the keys to come back home.
All things float down in the depths of the darkness,
where oxygen moves about like conquering qualities is no issue.
No prying sun to scrutinize the academia of those who dwell within
as the light shines from the physical realm of the soul in these here parts.
