Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Red Pill.

You'd drink too.

Drink to quiet the violent voices.
Drink to dull the damned and dead
and dying to drink to punish the
failures and feeble floozies who
push their way in before recoiling
in tarnished terror before the
spittle and spectres of horror and
hurt.

You'd drink too.

Drink to fuck the judgmental jurors
who point and pant and cry crocodilian
creeks down false flats of scabbed skin,
and cheeks blushed with rotten rouge,
the colors which stink of subjective untruths
oh me, oh mine, oh you, oh you
let us in, let us in, let us out, let me out.

Maybe you wouldn't.
Maybe you would.
Maybe you're Atlas,
and maybe I should
be, but I'm not.
And I can hear the knockers,
wanting to be kept abreast
and I can feel The Devil
waking in his nest,
ready to hunt, to stalk, to sin
I wasn't going to let you in.
But maybe I will,
after one
more
drink.

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