Brutal Mechanical

Brutal Mechanical

The nightmares get used to stalking fate in throes of burnt looking over the numbing food-chain 
Demonstrated right beneath the midnight heavens of an American who worked for borrowed years
Knee-high with stumbled hangovers and the occasional ringing of a sun beaten gun collection 
Faster than the suspicions afforded to the outstretched hand of a dead body found torn to pieces, while 
The police attend to the neighbors' wonder over the corpse, but only after having declared that the discovery had been dragged 
Out of bed with wicked consequence and fuck-all, like bone-chimes shrieking some ancient spangles of a whispered deal, 
No matter how many times you scream stop, or whatever else orders the path of sleepers, they are
Dwelling upon the gates of history to make sense of the months preceding death, with a hard-on for lost dreams 
Layered upon the evaporated days, no longer remembered, in a composite of fear, hope, and the smell of lost seasons 
The reasons having already been nailed shut with the seal of unused color from a pale book
 - all gone now - 
With only a mental Zippo left winding down the bulbless socket of an entire eye, having since gone blind after having performed alchemy to root out the dead center of our jagged little lie 
Which, 
Truth be told, 
Was already scarred over by each protruding splinter of horror found in the waiting night
Only to twist into other tattered and empty years in layered creases of god-knows-what Murdering the moment of unimaginably dark times suggested by the inanimate fading that only a home from back then could've found annihilating
With all subsequent days having been spent, existing only in retrospect, and often mauled over the evolving slivers of time
But never for more than the blink of a dangerous sentence, which strains the eyes like proof of some alien smell
All immutable and fixed on some hot plate of milked-up memory, often mistaken for history
While the blood is still caked around the guns and loaded with people, like cars
Without so much as a fucking inkling as to what they are getting themselves into 
Crying under the spell of homesickness for some shitty hotel that stinks of shots made in the dark hell of "rebellion"
Add to this the failed notice of Ivy-Leagued friends, now recognized by their soldier's lens, alone
Amounting to the slow realization that help will not find them all before nightfall
No matter what they've done or tried to outrun, carrying-on through the carrion dawn of slaughter
Leaving little distance between fiction and its daughter that is laughter, as the consequences crack-over the lips of irony's smile
Which comes to you all on marathon wind, like a cough through the canary's grin that's been pinned against the last dark mile
With backs to the wall, and in tattooed stalls of grotesque graffiti braille 
The fingers already frail from too many pulls off of the bottled-up triggers, which were fragile to begin with
So that the austere careers forced volunteers to leave the congregation of drunk religions and a jury of their peers
Still hung-up on a thread of discontinued sentiments and the dread of umbilical severance
Declaring that life is what scissors do to the fray
And that the rain isn't rain, but tears that stain