Babylon

Really am a crumpled clown at times, as the acid wash of jokes unsaid wipes down on my grin and smears the once-forgotten grimace back into place, the human race clapping in jest as I do my best to maintain composure. If there were ever a time to ask if a man was alright, it would certainly not be now and here, in this crackling corner of stale beer and raucous jeering. Chewed and maligned with a fractured spine, bent forward like an old man reaching and only achieving to the extent that my mind thinks of receiving.

The push and pull crossed pick and wave descend on days chocked with malaise that are welcome to all but enjoyed by the singular. Asthmatic attacks split my brainwaves in two as thoughts of you magnify brilliantly yet remain untouched for later misuse. Tinges of sunlight break between my shutters and crack through my eyelids like fleas unto feces, slapping grogginess away with the five-fingered effort of a fervent patriarch.

Constant beeping and buzzing from the background of perpetual Turkish soap-operas linger in the basins of my ears, complacent to the minute-by-minute gnawing at my lobes in chemical frustration. Christ-like consummations await the deliberation and decision-making of my cerebral cortex, though I respond in slow movements and anger every nearby Baptist. Some have said Heil and others say Hail, and though Alexander became Caesar, Caesar became Genghis, Genghis became Otto, and Otto became Hitler, the message remains that hail only dents and worship is quick to become blindness.

I'd welcome to the world every alien regardless of digestion-preferences and only bar the anarchists from landing ships. And that's not a statement on my political references, but rather that enough people misunderstand that movement as it is without extraterrestrials mixing in. Instead of a message of exclusivity, we'd be better off preaching including whom we seek, but messages of original clarity often shift to murky.

Steaks lined in rows of descending freshness beckon carnivorous cavemen to blast rpg's in sequence to John Williams' various soundtracks in hope of being fed fast. After images of red, medium, medium-well, and well-done strike past our lenses the only hope for our colons lies in probiotics. We need medicine to sleep, wake, shit, eat, pass judgment, and for others, pills to make it through the day without a bullet in the brain. Blasted conscious forces turns that toss him and emboss him with radial philosophies to get lost in, the only catch is that for each hour of realization he grows grim with fatigue and exhaustion.

I wake up with puppets crossing the silver lining at the end of my bed-spread and holding mock-beheadings of Louis XVI, all while I grit my teeth in terror, unaware that the more severe the images the less of a chance the fabrication exists. My only proper hope is that instead of plunging into dreams of crystalline machinations, I open my third eye to see cold-seas and hard-steel, armed with only tooth, nail, and the certainty that progress is a possibility, this I'd rather be given than the daily ration of ibuprofen to make the pain cease when the true pain is dependency.

What's become practical has switched from proficiency and entered the realm of pure, orgiastic entertainment. I propose we shoot every scholar, professor, laureate, student, applicant, and bureaucrat, then consume their flesh as wolves of Africa hungering for results but despising the exertion. Amen.