CHILDREN OF THE RISK

children of the risk. like the lepers of Olde, but with a higher echelon of homosexual hairdresser. preening pants painted on canvas’ woven from the silk of a worm named “CALM BEFORE CATASTROPHE”. (the herald is a heroine pixie in shredded black spandex.) in the span of a foggy breath, it’s amazing what becomes irrelevant. it takes more than 40 shakes to waste what 40 slaves could make. and maybe November isn’t hiding her malice in the folds of a million confused stitches? in the mortar between a million stray bricks that somehow agreed upon one certain form. some harsh symmetrical sex known only to the progeny of this disenfranchised era. call this what you will, but it only answers to “ORPHAN”. and, the spotlight is effective only when it vomit’s a silhouette. 
and, the clamor is like a thousand red candles blown out simultaneously. “Christ, imagine the tears!” says the corpse chauffeur. the frets of the instrument seem unmoved by the number of strings being played. swaying errant hair like a deadly serpent. dancing skeletal singer like a herald of the ENDGAME screams, “who could ask for a better martyr?” (the lights strobe to confuse the issue.) 


a headlock in a snowdrift, it’s the season for giving. give and take, it’s the season for taking. taking time, taking charity. ‘tis the season to hang your head humble in the face of the frozen unstable. “don’t forget to set the alarm.” but, who are we kidding when the man comes calling, with icicles in his smile? the wind moans with depthless ennui but, by nature, it is easily ignored. so, why couldn’t the world just remain frozen and quiet for just a few fucking days? 
like hot mist on a mirror, such are the games your future plays.
they say that the devil is in the details, but what if the details are what keep you from drowning? where should your allegiances lie then? “SUCH & SUCH IS PAST DUE” will Jesus pay my utility bill, so my children don’t freeze to death? oh, but what sins such questions become when one has faith?


thumbtack through my feather: 
“is it good luck?” 
[smell of impatient propane] 
“who knows, the day is still young.”


six months to adapt. seems like a crime enforced by edgy angular men with incongruous moustaches. crystal displays and ill-met co-pays. “woke up in the crosshairs of a sarcastic universe.” yeah, I’m a walking tragicomedy with a glossy insurance card, and I pay my rent with canned laughter. tell me, does that make you feel giddy? “well, we all have a job to do.” tell me, who pays you?