someone who, age-wise, reached beyo[ɑ]nd
20 (quite beyond), but this extremist co[ɑ]n—
—science of a wicked armed
comic book vigilante keeps my mind thinking some—
—times, like: "wish I get to meet someO̲ne
who'd revise this inco[ɑ]m—petent wight into one
surpassing assassin"
[not a hitman, big ******* difference]
so there's a solid why in this ***
existence
["hell's waking up every ******* day & not even knowing why you're here"]
————————————————————————————————
but also 'cause some-thing I wa[ɑ]nt is o[ɑ]bscene mob ****
and tsars with their ***-lickers done
away with, since these swines live off wro[ɑ]ngs (a heap of wro[ɑ]ngs)
that's a base they get their filthy lives built upo[ɑ]n
get your vice-ridden hides
out of your private planes & whips
or your ******* ace retreats
like someone on an invitation list
come in sight & taste some lead
as if it were a plated dish
["come inside"; also, "sight" in the sense of "gun sight"]
or you may get iced, like a dra[ɛ]nk in heat
in ways way more creative, ******
the kind excited by pre-RPG "AC"/Jo̲hn Wick fight sh#t
[3A "Assassin's Creed" games, which have wicked counter kills & coups de grâce]
so it's art of violence, like that **[ɑ]stile rhyme piece
in which I have a despo[ɑ]tic swine fixed (to death)
["punishment of an autocrat"]
or like that wicked bass-musique-led symphonia
made by We Are Magonia
speaking re[eɪ] musique, for a scene in that way, my pick
like a vis. representation de—
—picting me, would be a midtempo-bass-like beat
["my pic."]
hold up, wait a bit
like a meal-serving guy the da[ɛ]maged phiz
of which is like: "PA received"
["waiter beat"; "PA" - "physical assault"]
I was saying stuff like "you may wind up slain by means
way more creative in plA̲ce of ju[ɪ]st
being shot down", like a ba[ɛ]nkrupt biz
["shut down"]
how 'bout a grave blood leak
initiated with an a[ɛ]mple streak
of slashes & stabs with a serriform saber, which
would be followed by
your knees & necks perforated with
bolts from a ******* crossbow? (nice)
my imagination tends to go crazy sick
when thoughts of mine get occupied
with elimination sh#t

My eyes stare at words
like vege and meat
on a cutting board,
cutting each to meaning
                               sound
                            meter,
sentences and syllables,
my OCD mind refuses to stop
revving the gas pedal
on my 1991 Buick LaSabre
before doing donuts in the parking lot
of a shut down K-Mart.

I loved a star that never knew my name,
a silent flame,
fixed in the wreck of night.
Her stillness fooled me
into believing she sang.

She blinked once
in some long-dead century,
and I’ve lived ever since
by ghost light.

They say she's gone,
burned out or broken,
but I keep whispering psalms
to her afterglow,
drinking to the shape she made
in my sky.

I don't need the truth,
just the dream
of her burning.

Like something that waited for me,
not knowing I was too late
the moment I began.

You are my mind anymore;
In each fold and crack,
lies you and our memories