Impure Genius

  • How much, how much is guinness
    giving the arts saint Bridget asked
    as her shite turned black. Afraid to look
    o’re her shoulder for fear the dark
    demon would pick a space well
    lased on her spine between the blades.
    Close enough to her neck to breathe
    down ceaselessly, gracelessly, carelessly
    instruction and contracts.
    Small print hiding them facts. Facts
    like the few inches between a kick
    in the hole and a clap on the back.

    There you go so, sir and madam; a stout
    promise from makers of the brew a hue
    macadam. This road a road well well rode
    and traveled. Drink it up, drink it in with a brother
    and sister from another mother. Or, fight
    for a teat ignoring the weak. Like there is no tomorrow.
    You beg, they borrow: now all is sorrow in your place
    of worship.  Ahhh…  is it worth it’s weight in flesh
    as you flash, crash, wallop a loaded logo
    all agog with the go go.

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