Looking up at the firmament,
manicured digits, his compulsion, permanent.
He is going to kill us all with the steering gesture,
three and three-quarter pressure.

Looking up at the sky,
with a look of villainy,
from his eyes, secular,
did he discover irony?

Don’t tell me that god will save.
It wasn’t god that made us rip out the page
and had us jump into his imaginary car,
and had us cover up the scar with band-aid,
and has us mentally intoxicated,
and had us looking for signs-awaited,
signs of the real-life implication of the mime.

And all we’ve got is time,
until we wake up, fifty in bars,
and he is dead, and there are no more cars,
just human-crawling, instead.


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