livestock;//running around with your head cut o-

--send us the damaged goods & lip services. “the parts
are a little banged up./ but they will work” & play just fine.
sex is levitation.
not to be mistaken for the parlour Trick
overturned and underhanded.”
the evidence is marred and married with denial.
the shriek behind the curtains drawn
draw me in
erased by the pencil pushers.
the imitation reigns
hardly as black and white masked as these panting pantomime would have us believe.
the diagrams of a former dichotomy
that turned our experiments of anatomy
into lobotomy.
[[but the heart could beat the brain
that bloodied fist giving head./giving the finger}}
in the lipstick ballet
the perfect pretty little parings have paired off
and left every one all one
and all alone.
it is none of your business
at your expense. tightrope the four poster
I lose balances at times
the dummy load is blown.
falling headfirst/chasing tail
the safety fishnets
break your fall
the concussed conscience has hardly anything to say of this.
“it was an accident. it could’ve happened to damn near anyone.”
my neck on a spit
roasting over the open fire
rifling through the racks//loaded as ever
the thighs dance, spinning plates upon even thinner pieces
held together by gravity as always
but which of this disease is science
and which chance?
it has been claimed for it already- there is no fairness
in either that endeavour or the war-mongering
but we will chase either blindly
and end up with shots. regardless
my receipt tongue spits out number after number
I vent…just to release all that hot air
my balloon lungs hail the thief I am
my waist begs the lines to continue in cowardice
sex is levitation
b uu tt wh o c ou l d r i s e
a b ove it?

the words become soundtrack
the piece becomes movements
& it all ends in cigarettes.

the tap dance of conscience
resonates on the woodwork floor.
confine us. to see us sweat & squirm
who’s running makeup will we run to then?
or have we run out?
each ensuing peck leaves much to be desired
the ground is littered with the live feed as we
are famished for ourselves
the livestock;; are wanted dead or alive
- but what a life it could be…to run around
- with your head cut off.
transmission impossible.
disconnect. try your call(*girl) again

I am alive and well/over my dead body.
why thank you, my inebriated fellow. I don't really know how to fix that, if that is the case- but this was fun to write. t'was a bit of an experiment in visual word appeal etc.