Your Punishing Disguise
Here's where the horse's hooves dig
deep into the dust,
and you say:
"Fuck it. I'm done"
No more of this pussy-footing around
when the clouds are at my back,
and the shift is taking it's course.
You crush your cig under your heel,
and smash the face
of the next train-wreck who tries in their misguided way
to scrawl a smile into your stonehedge...
God, they get
so fucking tired
in their century old approach...
Just like an ancient broach
in some shoddy vintage store
some dead grandmother left behind,
that everyone dutifully ignores
because it fouls up the atmosphere
with it's rank odor,
and it's hideous design...
Fuck that shit,
it's neither yours or mine
to bother with...
Most probably possessed
with an evil spirit
that anyone with any lick of sense
would turn tail, and leave in a trail of their dust...
Why are you still rusting in his brittle arms, my love?...
His ignorance abounds,
and he stands there in the same place when you come home
like a coat rack
for your rain jacket to hang upon, and drip, drip...
The fucker has a hard-on
for your punishing diguise...