Seething
I have observed him
seething
with his seething friends,
their internal frenzied gears’ teeth
chattering away
like a battalion of palsy-afflicted flint stones
upon hollow tortured rocks.
I imagine any spark generated would
find plenty of food
for destructive thought.
The cranial space shared between them,
which they like to believe is a secret--
is an abandoned cassino
in the middle of a desert, its
paint peeling fine as dandruff
but with half the flash point.
This environment of dried-up neuro circuitry,
granular white and gray matter,
now yellowed and shredded
like 1930’s newspapers prepared for
recycling,
looks cozy
only to the irrational, rat-like mind.
It’s what keeps them going, though,
running like the collective parts
of a million-dollar pocket watch
freshly fished out of a blender
from some bartender’s blunder and
subsequent failed oops-too-late rescue mission.
They stumble along in broken, disjointed time,
foaming like rabid dogs,
deranged and hydrophobic.
They claim the smoke coming from
their nostrils is from a smoldering of
holy spirit-honoring incense.
I have a thousand reasons and
three times as many verses-worth
of evidence which may prove otherwise,
as well as substantial doubts
the Holy Ghost smells
of ragged ozone and sulfur
sprung from the Vulcan depths.
Their recruits
eagerly await marching orders,
complete with catchy cadences
filled with every morsel of
bald-face vitriol their lips have been denied
for decades,
soldiers deliriously grateful
to carry hatred’s water.
The astonishment of the casual observer
would be considered
confirmation of weakness.
Yet from among those resisters
new conscripts will be
sought, called, or
coerced.
Best to leave this seething, thirsty legion
to carry their own water.
Sandra K King copyright 2025
Comentarios