Perks of Desolation

I wish I could drive a fossilized Cadillac
right through an arid desert
in the middle of Arizona
so my desolation can have its own landscape.

I’ll ask the grains of sand
rocketing in swirls around the wind
if it’s seen my talent running by;
I’ve been calling it for months now.

The citizens of Earth are not cold.
It was just my eyes that gave them frostbite,
my mind that morphed their faces
to resemble the hideous change within.

I’m not sure if that’s a truth
that fate has put on layaway since birth,
or perhaps a rumor that’s been force fed
like wart-ridden frogs to the purest of tongues.

All I want at this point
is to be a center of a desert’s mushroom cloud,
leaving with a new look at the sky
and a bit of dry skin.

Psychosomatic Slavery

I stood there like a drop of water
as you savagely tore my very last shred
of ill-fated dignity,
as you so cunningly blared through
my symphony of thoughts
with your out of tune foghorn.

There’s not a thing left to say.

I’ve already let every scathing insult,
every hideously imaged simile
escape from my yellow-tinted lips
just when I could find your eyes and ears
turn their attention towards another victim.

It makes my stomach turn and flare
to even try to find a reason
for the way you so menacingly throw
my existence through the gutter of your misery.

It seems like I was meant to live
for just a moment, in a follicle of time
before I signed my soul away
to the dictators, vermin, and snakes of today.

Riot Call

It's such a tragic statistic
when the last thing on earth
that approaches your face
is a patch of brown grass,
pale and dry from age,
dead from poor nourishment,
just like your need for acceptance.

And it’s even more destructive
when the scarlet blood
hanging onto the tip
was pulled from your bone marrow,
all the way through your thick, coarse skin,
by the dense and moldy wooden plank,
swung in the hands of the town’s valiant savior.

Yes, there are rapists and fascists
living in each corner of the street,
pillaging their families of their dignity,
ejaculating on the very words they glorify,
but the filthy path in which you tread
might as well be a bull’s eye on your forehead.

The tides of holy water did not burn an inch,
did not smother your facet of human nature,
did not blindly agree with our fright-ridden hatred,
so the only and easy way out
is to induct you into our slaughterhouse,
all because you loved.

Can love be executed so poorly
that it awaits a death penalty?
In a Utopian ideal, anything can die.

And they wonder,
with our dying breath,
and the dirt being shoved
against our battered faces,
why we declare a riot call.