The One Thing About Those Little Sparks Is That You Have To Watch Your Wick

The Monkey Bangs The Tin Drum Dumb,
OnWard To Those Blackened Willed StrongHolds,
To Those Gutted-Twists In The Confines From Liberty,
Monday Beggars On Knees Of Glass,
While Shrapnel Zips Through Ears And Lips From Ten-Second Clicks
Whitening Teeth And CollarBones With Its Tickered Parade,
Bleaching Out The Fadeing Iris From Love PreTended...
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A Bookie Sits With His Phone To His Head,
All Bets Are Off UnTil The StormTroopers Find The Smokeing Gun,
He Stares At The Ringed Stain From His Coffee Daze,
Hypnotized And Lost In The Bitten Styrofoam,
His Hand Is Burning And Wet...
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SunLight Peeks Through EyeLash,
Stillness Through That Vision In A Cage,
Is It Snowing Past That Fanged Eclipse...?
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Or Did The Phone Ring When It Did?