He still has the scar where the monkeybar hit his face. The old road always leaves its mark. There, children forever etched in his memory, the times-tables flashback, the laughter when another fell and bruised a knee. The dogs look like they might smile and no manner of preying serves them mercy. The rafters and the bar heater lead, the insulation might not mark the skin. The old road and more corpses on the television to celebrate the glory of our times; my knees worn flat, my tongue swollen, the pages soiled as I bleed on the tattered analogies of books superseded by the new attention span.
They may catch and try to brand me, but I have ‘sovereign’ tattooed across my shoulders. I have cut from my own back the flag you see outside my mansion. I see the toads in the mouths of those that usher us to our demise.
No use to shake your placards outside the New World Reichstag.
You cannot put your tongue right on the diplomatic clitoris (because) that whore-horse will buck you off.
The day I befriend an arsonist I am on my way to dictator.