A mental music miser,
unsatisfied with note-ridden sanity;
irritated at too many architectural buffers;
willing to blaspheme to escape mediocrity's dull symphony;
Compared to the dry ice, the blistering inferno seems nice.
No bones for bread, he eats crumbling cake;
In the middle of the night he bakes blood in cups.
Jazz-stepping to the broken beat of bongo skulls,
a retreat into ritualistic rancor...
Singing in a rankling tenor with the venom of the viper;
An apple to the throat, tango for two.
[19:39|08.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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