Pint-Tinted

Taint-tinted follicules of metal wire,
Conducting/condensing the uncertain certainties
Of tin-warmed, informed entropy
The sickened claw of thermodynamics is an illusion,
Along with the flow of time.

Falling, divided by size, and comprised of parts never small enough
We gather at the macro to fornicate/fecundate

As slugs we look up, and there’s the ground,
Weighed down by spacebars piled in pyramids of fortune,
Cave entrance (Emet) smiling false (Met) teeth,
“Beauty’s on the eyes of revolver, sit on my dorsals,
Range your skirts such-like, and thus-wise.

Or else,

“The chords, I’ve heard, are two too few,
More strings ‘tween one and five are needed,
More flappers for amped tamped-tapping.”

HATE is so common here
We struggle to notice the fumes of our eyes
And the tiny objects we’ve swallowed have made it up to our eye-floats,
HATE is renewèd LOVE
Just as warm and more, much more sensible;
If it KILLS you, so it goes, there are other doors,
Differently painted televisions exposing
Different inner remains to the innards of early-onset, lily-gilded civilians.

Rub THIS in your eyes
Rid your shield of cursèd sight!
Be the NIGHT, anonymize your side,
Wisely swap: surfing treetops FOR
Pissing electric blankets all seasons,
Mandibles blizzarding fear.
Security is an illusion,
Danger is an illusion,
UNITY is product and consumer,
The Grand Self Above-all All,
Who kneels in front of mirrors,
Props ruffles round wreck-holes,
DOWN, downed by arrows going both ways,
Dowels split [CRASH! STAMP!] at the traveller’s splayed gait.