Vanity

To tell the man anything was tantamount to murder,

sovereign-time, second degree, first-person shooter.

And ran at the wall with a face for a mother,

but blessed was he in the ways of his druthers.

Practically molding over-

Virtual insanity-

He found from the call, can it be on the canopy?

Meadows lurked with dirtied unknowns, with no needs

for old holds of old bones and scarecrows.

Did you hear movement outside the house?

Parked in payphones.

Now inside was with him a parallel interval

From annals of evolutionary rot and sordid spectacles.

Behind the sink-
An old shaving-cream can-
Ate up the door around’er,
To tell the truth, the smallest of
The Fleetlands of the Marshers.

O’er came the pin-prick grasp.

Old man breath, bearded fish.

Barley-Rye, he barely knew much, and least of all of the rasp   of a wandering eye.

Each shake he gave two-by-fours upside the bed

of greater dread than he’d contended with in a youth of a

Shone scalp, and a bike-ride, south.

“Out!”, he demanded of those without fate, rather
Enders, however, of faded dreams – fake.
The final strike given with unheard ferocity:

Voracious viscosity envelops the vanity,

Soldering into smoldering flesh,

Screams of the man with the small iron crest.

Cimmerian shade from the shadow of the cross,

Victory’s found when all hope is lost, and

Simmering underneath the slime, ever-expanding to

Reach beyond his

Pomegranate countertops,

Paper-clipped newspapers, and

Phantoms who knew no revenge’s ever given.

Just quicken, quicken the flagrantly unfolding maw of Lucerne. Hasten the furious ever-quick to slumber.

No gasping was heard in this rebirth.

No cackle flew one, two, many times.

Bird-song ceded to silence, the river-run ceased.

No evil seeded child greater than a boiling benign cyst. Banging every sea-bed into crystal with the weight of a thousand suns, foaming at the mouth.

Quicken, quicken – the path of lewd banality.

The band shrieked rather than basting in the drink.

The black-sheep of the Fleetlands, it chose not nor neither.

No path ever traced would awaken the shape of a face to betray an intention, inspire a feint, or

Trade-out illusions for needs, or discreet pleas.

No bargaining with benjamins, bombs, or brewery.

Quaking in the pit, we send-off, they fear,

Not the impression of the tops of our peers.

A panting emerges from we who evade, with urges to

halt in place, to taste death;

No saved face

Emerges from behind the curtain in our grand

reunital, reunion, arrival, and karmic reprisal, all-at-once.

No salvational gate.

Rather, reconsider the face of the dinners of each one of your pleasantries.

They enjoyed the taste.