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Wanted: Slinger of Mirrors,

Tessellating lungs of fulcrum
Wading into scorn’s yellow Spring pond
We are flying to the airway Of. I hunger for our old hunger. 
We dealt our Hand and every Star
Only one pond my reflection’s gunning donned
To see bullets’ sound is bedlam

Every pothole in my ear. Another night—come away from there. 
That mixture will do no harm, I
Jolting flies.
Happiness arcades.
But if midnight settles down about my knees, about chest-high, 
you must be this high to ride
Molting lies.
Effortless charades.
I never thought you would want me to shoot you again. Close your eyes.
    Open your mind. Open
something degrading. something small something ready. Opening your eyes, y’know what I call thought? Deadly. Transmuting the world: Deadly. 
Do you believe it will change a thing? Can’t.


And you know. The worst essence of mankind opens; jumps out of the garden. 
Make a garden wave goodbye, 
and wonder if you will ever see that hand, handing over blood 
driven mad, stop
at a gas station and whistle to the ancients. Play a song that fulfills 
every heart. Play me yours, 
Talentless bouquets.
Every try.
My voice is a mirror I am Satan in the morning in the mirror cannot free what I wish not to be 
Poisonous parades.
Speak until wine.
Every bullet hole through Vegas in my migraine headache vice grip orchestral jacket unsewn

sewn. As though the knitting of cruelty into facets of time were designed 
in hopes that you and I
would not be overflowing with...oh, it evades me, I looked in the mirror 
I should have looked
The bullet tore; bled laughter; silver; more
we dealt with spires of Fear. We built here. Seeking to speak. 
Left and Right became unwound beneath the planet's rotation. 
At the airway Of, my old wound sings the blues of the gun shooting 
  
Wanted: Slinger of Mirrors
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