At the end of the race
make em say:
to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much
this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds
what ears are these they’ve heard enough
and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!
His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough
even nail beds torn up from climbing so much
lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood
it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!
To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?
His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.
What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone
he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!
who feel invisible
the most heinous things,
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
to write a book in cold blood.
I tell myself stories
and create word pairings
like a master work of Rembrandt
picture perfect in a frame
but no matter my intention
good will is always marred
by Van Gogh’s lack of detail
or is it his mastery of the craft?
Destroying my art
one piece at a time.
Your finest work was not in oil,
it was in your blood.
Take me with a grain of salt
then throw me over your shoulder.
It’s the only way I know,
self taught and still figuring it out.
Just a pinch is enough though.
Nobody wants high blood pressure.
Oh, but we’re all so practiced
in the art of innocence.
I hear you when you give thanks
but that doesn’t mean I believe you.
It doesn’t mean that I don’t too.
Nothing ever is that cut and dry.
Now, this is the part
where you throw me over your shoulder.
We are what we make ourselves.
Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.
There is no difference.
If it sells, it sells.
And the more grotesque, the better.
Greater pain equals greater possibilities.
Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.
It has and will always be.
The grand illusion.
Story time before the big sleep.
faith can be a very clumsy thing.
A very scary thing.
But it doesn’t make a difference either way.
Prophets will stay prophets.
Martyrs will stay martyrs.
And fools remain fools.
How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?
But it sells, so it sells.
you get it.
We were the monsters lurking under the bed.