Rhyme admonishment

As Sokoloff sleepily requests wine-soaked reminiscences from the aperture of valentine freedom, I beg bags of delectable nuggets fashioned in the shape of the lord to be handed down from the peaks of time-lapse crumbling mountain tops. A songstress crooning endlessly weeps for the loss of cords and chords, ceremoniously placing a crown of crystal, chimeric thorns atop her axis of “ay, there’s the rub.”

I twist off the cap of ironic statements in the snack food aisle of CVS and mumble odes to herbal joys under my breath as the workers gather around in parallel circuits to determine if I present a consumer threat or if I’m just another loon that forgot the way to Walmart and stumbled in for a sack of expired thin-mints gratis.

Decembrist’s chill ascends back into the heavenly maxim of pro patria booty-slap, I’m left with the dust of a January hail and the hope of a March basking in unrequited glistening. Saliva-caked wrapping entombs my mental membrane in a casket of ash-brushed blunts and puffs of ether lazily descending onto a sheet-rock frame of personality dysfunction.

Bilal’s sojourn into psychosis serves as a reversely polarized moral and aesop fable, inducing curious minds to venture into the unknown in pursuit of spontaneity, clinging to the notion of self before all and bared enamel chipped away by minute long sessions of intense power-tool insertion into open segments of my oval remnants.

The shadow of my soul weighs 22 grams and darts its head from side to side in a mimicked pantomime of my anxiety attacks and a sharp impression of my inclination to aggrandize my expressions in my megalomaniacal desire to impart my largely falsified sense of depression, appearing as though I have a massive sanctum of depth in my chest when in all actuality I’m nearly stuffed abreast with scores on tests and the opposite of timorous views on death.

Handling a mismatched grouping of coupons while idly flicking through channel after channel of repeat re-runs of The West Wing, I begin to cast my lips to the heavens and sing the song that ends the world, like a fascist allegory to Christ’s trudge onto his promontory. While my eyes bleed into a tin full of half-churned buttermilk I take a swig from a series of yogurt cups swished with the Listerine gargling of soccer-moms passersby.

I haunt the waiting room with the tenacity of Jack Black’s struggling pinky ring and sneakily dart into the antechamber of the dental hygienist’s ulterior desires, chucking a stone at his previously dented skull and snatching his gilded bags of salivated excess phlegm to digest at my behest.

The only time I’ll accept requests or acknowledge inept intents by those who linger near the corners of my increasingly dusty eyes is if at that moment in time I can surmise why I rose from a womb, ascended to my knees, blinked the prophet’s truth and chained my spinal cord to a key-ring of publishing dreams while none of it seems to vindicate my spring onto neatly arched feet.