Dead ringer for a sinner, you say?
Shall I pray?
Drink paint thinner at dawn? Wait to die like the three-pace count of a duel drawn?
I chuckle at your inevitability even as my knees buckle under me. I’ll die unholy, yet free.
Perhaps an amalgamation of sins is in order, or shall we scavenge dinner out of dustbins to stay alive?
Smoke a fag like the British, political blowback scrimmage, bloody rags to mourn the death of a young homosexual.
Fuck rainbows, I wear crimson as remembrance.
I dare to dream of a one world government or an empathetic nation, I dare to self-asphyxiate, drowned in gasoline and complete lack of fire stations.
I’d be a liar on the pyre. “How ironic!” You could say. But should our lives spin on an axis or travel in either straight or winding ways?
Goad me into self-resurrection for once, because as a math dunce I’m inclined to write poetry or make football punts.
My spine told me it had enough of the latter.
Fine, I’ll quit.
My body will divide into a hundred thousand fat cells, but worst to tell, my spit will dry up so I can’t speak anymore. Then the shit will hit the fan; because I’ll take up interpretive dance.
I shall dry up, yet prance.
Go away! Show the way. Know how god damn long you’ll stay.
Don’t the bums on the street know I’m a student? I can’t give you my change, I need that shit to eat!
Dead ringer for a sinner, could qualify for gunslinger, treat my magnum like a dick, make money, drive stick.
But shit, I’d rather drive a minivan over nothing the fuck at all.
I’m suffering from fall, chuck’s up syndrome. I just can’t keep him down, he bucks and bruises my insides, out of luck as acid melts him away. But beyond cannibalism I STILL pray, a fucking monotone parade. An onslaught to rock this fray.
May I indulge in seppuku now to shut both of us up?
Dead ringers for sinners, waiting for grand execution like winners, acting unifying force to force ‘em dimmer, rather be hated than loved if it makes anyone glimmer.
I’ll be a rage tyrant, break fire hydrants. Flood streets! Gather armies to a beat. Hold pointless meet and greets. Justify anointed bleeps, censored, so very, very, neat.
Dead ringer, cold killer, isn’t that what the world wants? Somebody to flaunt and be taken down a notch? Hold my crotch like an ego? Murder religious heroes, regal?
I’m a dead ringer for a sinner, just another blacklight grinner, whole heartedly sacrificing my liver, but hoping to avoid grimmer. But just one finger raised:
“What would you die for?”
