April Redux

This gun to the temple is
driving me mental.

I’m no laureate but when
personalities divide,
insanity’s all the rage
in this limerick of mine.

It’s a dream to unfurl us, for the sake of certain pearls; Shangri-La for an everlasting kiss with poisoned sights, to
cultivate darlings 
to kill from 
a place of love.

Hallucinations fakin’ orgasms of authenticity when you take my city and call it a slum, sitting so far above the fumes. 

Are there, like, Coles Notes for struggle, DIY guides for watching status quos crumble? Is the voice of God guttural or even English?

However bloody the
wars of tone become, the feeling in my legs still wants to run, the voice in my lungs still falls in love with stupid things,

and I await
its
reversal of
five seven fives
into something
alive, 
extraordinary
ordinances
of
reconstituted
divides.

I used to love your stories until I saw how horribly they end;

I held onto octaves, afraid once autonomous, they would wear my smile like you did.

Andromeda to your Earth, taste of rock 
bottom just to 
balance your worth.

Wind section’s 
insurrection, 
rhythm deserts 
in droves.

Violins left to defend against 
auditory overload.

And now that we’re alone with the corpses of self-importance, their unintimidated gaze, heaven’s blood is in the breeze and dead silence reigns supreme.

Not sure this poem has any real point besides
digital pencils that scrawled it, but I’m reborn every 60 seconds and live for all of it.

Demolitionists
ascend,
and before I ever felt the
steel beams bend or snap,
I had secured
the consent of twelve city
blocks to rock
their foundations and send
smoke plumes through their
stories.

’cause we reign
but were not
responsible for
the aftermaths,
feats of
engineering and
their violent
acts,

collaterally damaged
facts on
the ground.

I lost so many decades
sitting on a bench,

just waiting for life to begin.

And I might die of madness before material bliss, having

forgotten how
profane those
once upon
a times
could be,

twisted words of
the revered mundane;

running deeper into the heart of fear, begging to disappear inside its flying bullets. 

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