It’s the shadow on the wall,
with whom I’m bantering with.
Myself.

Who was that you were talking to
...and currently talking to?
Myself.

Your questions bore me---
that’s a different self.

Drunken ramblings.

Don’t judge...or do.
It matters not to us.

We here, drunken and dismayed; thrown to the wind.
Reckless and without burden.

Twisted and liquid diatribe;
A jumbled mess of words, and bars;
chains, lizards, monkeys and stalls.

Wild words:
A smattering of crying visionaries,
leaking on the page.

As if a myriad of slaughtered children cried to the heavens
and declared something unholy yet righteous,
as the mother screams for the innocence of a martyr.

Displayed on a pulpit of
wallowing,
flaming desire
and suffering.

Out of the belly of a whore,
Who spat us onto the shores of Gomorrah.
And would digest us in the happiest of fashions.

Drenched in the blood of your lover,
or a ranting and raving poet.

To strike at the heart of whomever
would dare to challenge, or stand against a
malevolent
benevolent and
ambivalent giant.

Ready to swallow the torment of the most.
Myself.