This kind of dizzy chaos, is not my kind.
This form of inquisition…
unholy, unkind, inhumane.
Leaves those in its wake…
the artist of being…constantly at stake.
Never one to grovel for my dinner.
Nor pretend that I am not a sinner.
This day-mare requires all who own it to be awake.
It demands of me to be conflicted and confused.
But no matter, the ignorant assumption,
I am not a malingerer for the skeptic.
The only natural selection is survival of the petty.
A sacrament to the few to save the many.
Castaways, we are, set apart, on a lone isle.
Aptly named, delinquent destiny.
Dykes, fairies, bundles of twigs, junkies looking for a fix.
Perhaps, even a warrior with some tools missing.
Even the lame, held accountable for their pain.
Indeed, all ambassador’s of shame.
We are a riotous few.
Islanders who cannot be put back together with glue.
These are my favorite companions…
They are aware that a lightning strike…can happen on even the sunniest of days.