the good inferno
we the defiant, the critic, the vulgar, psychotic ruled trespassers of the streets at dawn, cannibal mouths gaping, banalities strangled on our tongues, arrowed signs pointing to storm drains and sewers and into factory chute holes— hyperbolic hyperboles rollercoasting through our minds, bins of trash set ablaze like fireworks on the fourth of july, stifled by the tropes of fiction, stifled by the taste of bliss, we paramours of ecstasy, barbarous sharp-ribbed hounds nipping at our heels for lack of what we lack too, screaming from rooftops for the next phenomenon, the next franchise, the next body lying supine in a dank dark alleyway—we prophesy the apostrophe in our lives, cigarette smoke curling into a grimy sky below our feet as we rise on clouds of overwhelming rapture, we cynical extra extraordinaries making parachutes with our hair like exorbitant off-brand rapunzels looking for the easy fix, the rule of triumph, the carpe diems of yesterday—borne by brute winds until we la...
