Final musings of the languished
death cult. Visceral. Death rattle.
Wigs upside down. Make-up makes the man.
Stiletto me this, my good, sir, and don’t forget
to strap it on. Help us support your pink habits,
hats, and manes. Ironic, thin lensed, bun-topped,
bike-rimmed, march through mullet and soft rounded,
gaping smiles teaching love and tolerance.
Beat it into their opposition with open hands
and open hearts, hoping their truths pummel souls
with the light divine. Reformation, the final reiteration
of false regulation. The bowels release their final bloat.
The fumes a familiar smell across borders. Erase.
Unnecessary platform streaming through the stars.
The night an eclipse on the nightmares of the day.
All things sutured to heal and reconcile.
The incisions scab dry as the differences
heal over. Purpose has found a place.
—
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“Mare of Late Night Inconsequence” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
