You can walk the lanky mire of bullshit
only in enclosed spaces.
Covered in breath and suffocating
under the swamp of
words not said
and only our language
speaks volumes.
So now there is only shouting.
Words climbing mountains
meant for molehills
fallen to rain showers
and dissolving into dirt.
But these storms brew ugly:
sandstorms violently tossed
like shot-puts colliding with glass windows.
A fire sprouts along the Eastern border
of our rosy, cheeky childhood,
fanned by the cataclysmic waving of
stubborn exploits
holding on too tight
for an upper hand
that divides meaning and reason.
[Our rescue service is declined,
for lack of warranty
and no concession to act]
[Our extinguisher is filled with
lighter fluid
and alcohol]
[The emergency plan leads out
a filthy alleyway reeking of
anti-climax
and
social disquietude]
So the ashes will pile in lobbies,
in separate rooms with locks and bar handles
and no speaking.
And when the smoke clears,
the purpose is lost in the rubble.