Pass the Bottom of the Nothing

Creating a self that makes the sun sweat, line lured from the savage recesses, bet outside my cell are the putrids tapping on the surrounding glasses. Driver fast yet stacking a card castle full of aces. The chase, for the one that demands to be inked—for your tale vailed in a haunting forgotten blink. Better help from the pre-fucked pie of what the doctor recommends daily. Baby’s breath of Bailys, no tooth aches, no pretense of shattered glass in the future. Moistened out of focus…outside of review. Packs of me and your half right. I’m the Bandanaed Violet Knight--I need that on me. Read the groves of the life led by the effervescence of shock and awe, the brave, deaf to cries from the fall. Lockstep with self-built laws. Pause. Is that the silence, followed by violence—let it claw at the cleansing, kill your clandestine ache for mincing words. Let the walk avoid the herds, lending to hostile verbs. Be the consciousness that can’t tell what it is, but draws the love in with its iron fist. Claim no order can border you—YOUR absurdity. Flame against Demeter's dissenters with disregard that re-angles the purity for the lights to blind the dementor, yes, a pack of them. Yes, a hoard would peel the skin back of anything unsettled by the inside of the third eye. Don’t lie, you know you’re promising Leagues below the depths and hooked on climbing innovations. Sample from this building's Cosmic boiler to greet the surface with your rawest wiles.

Cocky sure, but the prompt demands it

Rush of thoughts, over-crowded transit.

The whole rat race,

what the hell is pace,

and why the mask’s loose fit promotes your haste.

Medicine locked on symptoms famed as unique reeks of subjugation.

Lost one's own peak, no sense of concentration.

Bled dry by false fates,

debates wasted on shallow dates.

Rused by infatuations layered in misguided hate.

Raddle in ridiculous fields for a massive discovery,

suddenly, dancing in valleys, hopelessly excused from reality.

In leapfrogging nihilism,

Find the wanderlust exorcisms.

Elaborate at the prism’s precipice, let them bask in the vibrant incongruity.

Letter box of ads, lost in jaded fads.

Pretend it’s not so bad, forget you’ve been had.

This message from the mantle,

‘There will be no handle.’

Listen to your social Jackels that guides you swiftly through the MAD.

Lessons from the horned beast to the philosophically bound.

Not that I need that one on me, the ricochets make no sound.

Release the Übermensch from your dreamscape,

Embrace every crack repaired with Duct tape.

Pull back the White Lodge drapes, and laugh for one more round.