Slouches Publicize Private Wounds

I hide beneath tattoos.
You embarrass me publicly, "get in the car".
The blues are a bruise.
"Why're your nails black?"
Depression's a scar.
I dress like a thief to be as seen as a star.
I mar my face with metal cleaner than my clogged pores.
Vampiric, I lick to taste the iron bolted through my tongue.
I could dress any way but you only think of your young son to worry if he's gay.
Awkward as they may be, at concerts I find my we.

Mortality's Watered Down Immortality

B/c water makes things worse right?
Never do you hear the burning man complain about being watered-down.
Never do you hear the burning man's voice, only flames speaking in tongues.
Orange and red tipped whips sinuously spreading in threads, on bare skin.
Blue centers hotter than our own core body temperature.
Yellow sparks blacken and die, long lived as may flies, through nitrous wind.

April O'Neil showers then brings Aunt May flowers to lift the glower from her sour puss a dexterous surgeon couldn't eliminate.
Peter Parker picks a pinch of pepper pressed 'tween thumb and forefinger from his tweed overcoat's folds. He's protected from the cold and cooking for good-looking Mary Jane. Her green thumb has nothing on her green tongue; it has tarred her pink lungs black. She will relax in slacks with a glass of ice cool water.

Victoria's a model citizen.
She lives in a slum the first job's paycheck blankets.
Her fatherless baby craves attention only the tv is lazy enough to sit and give.
She collects stamps to pay for Chex cereal and checks her PO box for poor William's alimony (he's not the sperm donor).
After passing out, "I Voted" stickers to suckers she serves her civic duty as the cute girl in a jury.
Other members gather glad to see her and if they were hung with better stature than indecision she'd give them a smile, atleast.
A bit of drip slipped past her lips leaves a trail of dark stains in plain view down her white undershirt.
Worked-up fellas, behaved for da dames, look away physically and mentally shame Vicky with a wet-t-shirt situation.

"Sit u ass down" said the clown w/a frown to the chimp in a gown.
He was trying his gloved hands at untying the pink ribbons.
The ignorant gibbon was resistant.
Not more than 7 minutes to showtime and wouldn't you know the troublesome troglodyte ran about the room, refusing to be stripped of his costume.
Pausing to sniff his finger the wee hairy beast lingered long enough for Eeno the Clown to tear down that gown.
Mr.Bibbons slapped Eeno for being fresh.
Despite the duress, the chimp was changed from a chump to a champ, and Eeno, damp with sweat, watched from backstage while the performance was made.

Uplifting

When the works of your hands glazed your heart in grime
and most of the time life has lost its' shine
you have matured.

Death is the end of knowledge
yet the beginning of wisdom
for in comprehending the ending
we complete our understanding of a process.

Not to put too fine a point on it
but when the fine details don't look too fine
and the repeated events we're smeared with aren't refined
so we whine while waiting in line to be fined again for trying
there's a prosperity in finishing
for which (with each whistled breath) we're wishing.

Pain tells us something's wrong
and that's better than nothing
despair follows hope
like joy fills a fool.

Tomorrow Street

Life's left less on lifeless avenues than news has heart to hew viewers eyes to in lieu of torsos lined with holes like fiefs or piccolos; they lull in tattered blood-darkened dress, kenning nothing while whistling unconscious 'cause kami blew through their gaps like a thresher saps a grassy field, gathering this season's yield.
To marrow's stress e tears, worm matted Tom mourns rows' treatise. Were more to mar* O treat te erstwhile mop-top merely strongly: teach worry. More torment borrowed screes tea-rights where ummah's it.
Men mingle a'tingle with a want ta meet. We'll all get together on Tomorrow St.
Riding a mare Tom arrives at a hospital. They help a little. Then his ummah takes him up. (Rocks slipped, skipped sloppily down a slope, tipped Tom's flagship, flipped his cup, and anxious wives found his body meanly taxed.)
The love of life's emotions in-breast. Belting tight our breath: expectations of death. Glory in self makes children>propagation. Go over an' speak wit' her when lifeblood burns hot. Stay still an' silent you're ill wit' rot.
Women wait for a great to greet. I'll see you there at Tomorrow St.

*he'dn't've lived.