I didn’t meet you at a bar.
I am not your friend,
we are not comrades.
This is not a real war
and this is not my true intent,
but blinded we’ll walk a little
straighter, don’t come here.
We hate this but leave before
the song’s through.
I didn’t invite you, this
is invective with a personality.
I didn’t try it came in twitches
and in concert.
My fingers aren’t trumpets.
and the features of the sky
in no way resemble leviathan,
the priesthood or another Jesus.
This is not pick-up trucks rusted hood.
We’re talking one of those old school,
“Blockbuster” joints before boo-tied
treasure got flicked to the parade-mob,
like violent Mardi Gras, this is no
party. This is misery I swear this get’s
too ugly and raucous to pacify or
make famous and chain to a linked brand
fence for carrion devouring, sacrifice.
This is Sparta.
This is Contra,
this is Birth.