Paving stones to hot locations.
11.29.17 – Regime-d
These were hard lions to follow, ones that roared on a rampage, took their rage off the page, and jammed that tooth to your neck for a negligible bit of the truth. Always it went too far with the pride, standing in angry stride at the mangy sites of those family fights. But we wouldn’t best Samson, test his strength to rank ourselves amongst saints and miracle workers. And like Max’s mix it was a bitter pill to swallow; he’d let the dead still wallow, loving their bluffs and not strutting for buttercups. We couldn’t linger, licking lips for revenge and leaving a finger as an extra figure for our fallen fathers. What mattered was matte, flat and monochromatic so we’d standout, automatic, on the backdrop when we came stomping in to rend and bend back the beasts that tried to unseat us. They’d meet us and bleed till they could be only dust. That long filing, spiraling back to the green mother that’s cradling all her offspring. She sings to see us, weeps to wean us. We’re waddling, swaddled in that love but shoving one another to the cold, smothering crooks, out of the old comforting nooks and maybe off that safe haven to a worse kind of heaven. We didn’t have to encourage the outrage, it came from being balled up and writhing with lying snakes. They’d shed skin to sneak further into stabbing range and exchange that venom for vision and the wisdom to warp ours. Those eyes, lit to be wounds, slit too soon to teach us our own echoes. This way no one knows their own guttural greeting from a grumble against a revealing and false wall. Now all we had was more boasts to throw at the mirror and hear only the jeers resounding back at astounding levels. We’d mustered in ire, rallied in retaliation, and sired our own annihilation; it was deserving and deafening.