Crack.
the sound of this, the sound of that.
the stockman’s whip astir,
your knuckles all nerved up.
your body’s bones in and out of place,
in half,
seventeen years of calcium’s hard work destroyed.
synapse’s shooting like firecrackers.
when locked behind closed doors,
you should stuff It up your nose.
Crash.
the sound when the chances shatter into innumerable pieces.
i told you not to throw It.
pick up the
pieces,
remainders,
and cluttering debris,
before It snags the opportunity to haunt you.
Dribble.
lean over the sink, to look into your eyes.
and don’t forget to fake it,
or you’ll pull you’re head away from the mirror,
and realize that you’re eyeballs have fallen out into the sink.
note their colors, leave them there,
rolling around in this morning’s toothpaste,
i know i don’t smell of roses,
but before you jump to conclusions,
Mister Shady Politician,
pick that lint off your own black suit coat.