Triple Crown threshold of glam,
heartbeat left over.
Beat in the cells of pills,
while listening to space music
high on vibrate; a caution known to filth.
Treaties of an argument,
your first sight has slammed into the television.
Not only should he be televised
but mystified by the houses on the block.
A war of screaming between something about a list,
and something about a son.
Rubber tight fits me like a glove.
I’d felt a story coming along,
in a teenage fan club I begin to shove.
Misconception about sex in the fog,
turn me on and hang loose;
not only has a bastard attracted the attention,
but taking the human out of the being and leaving the animal.
He’s already taking the thrill,
59 pages to go and I’m already filled.
His antics of society, drive me to an edge
where his ideas conquer and the children mock.
That mocking bird of words falling out of his mouth,
with purple lips in a tight latex.
He tattoo’s a bitter, better Tower Motel,
out of the cable and static;
were the face of his enemies and friends lay.
Just dying to be part of a religion that was made up in a day.
Photo by Kristen Fisher.