I find my mind ritualized by undefined
pride as it hides behind a mechanical
persona, sensual and slyly fit, headlined
with a type of boldfaced recognitional
code winding inside a skull clearly undermined
by having dots for eyes and dashes for stubble.
Bending iron wills in the shade of mass graves
tends to be disquieting for those who crave
stillness from the middling eyes of beaten slaves.
"Death is always victorious in battle
even when life holds on to us and rattles
us as we graze our lives away like cattle."
Speaking with conviction, this king of all beasts
drops to one knee wondering thusly the least
of which is how his flock will eat these raw feasts.
Behold then, under varied awnings
of all stripes unfolding with whimsy
despite an August sun dawning
early over clouds acting clumsy
and uneven, a few men flock
past storefronts to just simply gawk
at the wares behind the windows.
One particular plain-spoken man
rolled his eyes about like some token
set of hills where maidens of Diane
would hunt naked using oaken
bows and arrows made from dead gods' bones
then the man took out a few stones
and threw them against the glass.
Shattering and scattering downward
as alarms sound in wild amusement
while the man smashes a foul word
through a fresh and empty arrangement
of pure space brought on by the slight
incongruity that one might
expect from living in Quicksand.