sweeps through the floor
like the hem of a rag
on a doll-faced hooker
as the lights are dimmed
in this conscience-distorted brothel.
To him, the raindrops taste like whiskey
so who's to blame him
for being a drunkard?
He will not take such condescension,
and so he shall pass it onto thee
like a hot potato;
just say the third-degree burns
came from hugging the stove.
For you, the days are a beach of intenstines
set alongside waves of toxic waste,
the moon now a mood ring
sitting atop the knuckles
of your vengeful king.
This decade of brutal purging,
atonement for sins not yet committed,
has been as grandiose
as his figure those Thursday nights
when he's stalking for his property,
and you're close-mouthed
under the bed,
looking through barely a slab
of this virtual reality,
the iron-fisted giant
who would nurse your neuroses
if he'd stop bashing your face in.
Your expectations for the outcome
laced with Disney Princess satin
swoop around like silk ribbons in a noose
(the "O" stands for optimism),
the pang of unknown futures striking
with each paranoia-ridden look to the side,
yet you still take the hot potato
and let your skin seethe itself inward
with your stamina and self-worth,
for it must all, at least,
lead to Eden.
You should just remember.
The men still pulled the lever
as Selma Jezkova sang her last song.