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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.
Is it?
Now, this is the part
where you throw me over your shoulder.
The failed King sat on his throne.
His Queen had already fled.
Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought
of who would bring him his dinner tonight.
The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.
As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.
And no matter how much blood was shed,
his people showed no sign of stopping.
It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.
He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.
It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.
It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.
Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.
What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.
I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.
Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?
He then took note, that he was alone in his castle. How puzzling he thought.
But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.
A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.
Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.
Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.
It went something like this.
My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.
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.
You see,
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?
It doesn’t.
But it sells, so it sells.
Eventually,
you get it.
We were the monsters lurking under the bed.
Words Of An Average White Male 