The forward button

What's the use of feeling enraged?

Your blood grasping hot iron

fumes thrust through igniting the char

it twists and turns

and knots a million cinders

burning its way through your heart

and puckering through your brains

gnawing a deep hole

that lets you estranged.

As you scrabble through

cursing wildly under your breath

sweating your way into dark, uncharted poles

Flick your eyeballs,

as you cast them on to every syllable

that has ever been inked, dissolved in the contagion

or even to be uttered

scattered intrigue, a few coins up their sleeves,

a back sword, a bludgeon, a pistol

appears from the magician's hat

there lay a crimsoned stiff or more,

rather many wailing upon their loss

be it their petite stock of the green

or their soul bread that

wouldn't lead to another suicide,

or the penny that fell off their spilling pockets.

As the bulging belt

spits out another button,

he frolics with a glass of liquor

and spews around orders to obey

and plots more devilry under dim light,

you snoop around

scribbling meticulously into your notepad

every word or rather noise

that he drawls into the mic to the cheering crowd

or whispers into the ears of the untold

and as the dawn trickles in

your words, or rather his,

trickle into the minds of your readers.

They go berserk, a million others like you

they enunciate, punctuate, debate

over the affair for a few minutes

and then, as they press the 'plus' button

the a capella swings in

their frowns blur

they tap their fingers noiselessly

on their coffee tables

and they rush for a swig of beer

forget every hue and cry

and party like the end of the world.

You furrow,

insist, assume,

apparently endeavor

break knuckles

errand and elicit truth

your 'new's thinned by a thousand drawls

as they just hit the forward button.

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FOUND

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