Run though the mercury double doors from allies,

Guilt smeared across dumb stricken faces,

Full of fear from the repercussions of their treasons.

Stand outdoors puffing, puffing, and puffing more,

Puffing before the wind,

Howling through the alleyways, half sighted buildings, and monuments to your God,

Blow us into timeless and revolving nicotine addiction.

Sit in the cold salty sea one day in January,

Call out with phalange and meta tarsel,

To the sea creatures you read about in picture books,

And invite them back for tea.

Dance among the scaly children,

Whose sickly fingers fumble frantically,

For rapidly moving ankles,

And heavily jeweled hands,

That hangs lazily above the unforgivable scene.

Scream at the top of your lungs,

To the empty cavernous canyons,

To hear the hallow and empty eco of your own bellowing,

Press the replay button on the cheap blue and red tape recorder over and over,

To soothe an overzealous ego.

Crawl out from your mother's harrowed grave morning after morning,

After spending years and years of endless sleepless nights,

Among the night crawlers and partially decomposed sod.

Slide through the cracks and slide through the system,

Avoid all confrontations presented by the minister whose greatest wish,

Is to ensnare you in your own formulated security,

Just to see you wriggle and squirm.

Swim through itchy lakes of pollution,

Eating the fish that resorted to cannibalism,

As a result of dead vegetation,

And drinking poisoned water,

That succeeds in its attempt to make you ill.

Scratch through layers and layers of dead skin,

Burned by the sun and oblivious forest fires,

That care not for the neighboring cities,

And civilians sleeping calm and innocent in their four poster beds.

Kill the mimes that bore you,

And make your life seem meaningless,

In light of all your half assed achievements,

That got you on the cover of Vogue and TV guide and the National Inquirer,

To fulfill a destiny of bad entertainment.

Shuffle through the masses of eyeless mongoloids,

That nibble on your ears and sanity,

While the preacher on the TV,

Located at the highest skyscraper,

Prays for your already wretched and abandoned soul.

Shake off the feelings of gloom,

Associated with Christmas,

Thanksgiving and Easter,

The inability to appreciate family that is never all together,

And always completely obsessed with their own ambitions of the coming years

Vomit the soup from your wife's bosom,

Than like a heretic burn her on an ungrateful stake,

That marks the years of abuse dictated by the bible,

And other texts that suppose the womb a symbol of unforgivable evil.

Spit up all your ideals,

All your delusions of grandeur and fear,

So that they lay venerable and shivering on the kitchen table,

In prime place to be hacked apart,

And than deserted when nothing of interest is found at all.

Rise above the heavy hair,

And all the sticky valuables,

And sticky memories,

Framed and mounted on walls rusting with age,

And slightly yellow from the years of fornication with tobacco.

Lay face down in the bathtub,

With the taunts of the world ringing in your ears,

And slowly ease into sleepy submission.