What a sweet, acidic way
To perform a version of “Roman Holiday.”
We giggle uneasily at the plastered mafia kids
As their guns convoltingly spiral
On the mirrored pavement.
Baby-doll eyes motley roll over
And their facades turn to ashes, ashes,
They all fell down.
Your polluted voice
Once again repeats that it’s a
Tragic event that should numb absurdity and
Freeze my laugh to the needle tears
Corroding in my aluminum conscious.
I glance at the pious little mask you’ve
Mordantly glued to your face,
Delighting in the consensus,
And our cackles wickedly explode like a
Million toys being blown to bits.
Do you truly love being shackled to ugliness,
Or are you just achingly plotting
Until the skeleton limbs on the clocks
Tick-Tock to your cue so you can
Snatch back what you lost?
You might want to put on some rose
Colored glasses before you’re blinded by
Mr. Detective has finally concluded
That speaking in code is sleazily diluted.
So maybe next we could jump on trampolines
In a hopeless attempt to
Unlocking windows in the memory-stained sky.
You under-handedly mention my recent
Homemade cosmetic surgery,
The very first line in our script
Which will feature some
And on-purpose trances
In our completely pointless but oh so lovely
Life-and-death Puppet show.