Conmen

Tired and rested waking up slowly of Nightmare saucers of plate filling heads decapitated from chests as if art      making know it alls could make man into art.

Flatulating fields of nonsense clouds stratosphere of hyperbole within the undulating sin waves cosigning my earthly mortgage.

Emojis taunt my scrambled breakfast orange juice so that I can carbo load days and days of crap into recyclable shopping bags.

The anger man torments the hangman stickman mortuary for his inability to spell simple phrases across the hallways of his empty tombs.

Why does the yelling bang drums from hallow oars and wakes of ships tossing future dreams to the shark passages of middle earth where the nigger drowns off the page.

The tokens of Tolkien pouring from ivory tower fantasies to Oscar nominated grouches for orcs and men to have their days to read.

The hard work is toiling.  The work is hardly toiling.  The toiling for hard work is an omnipresent spectre that stands within that mans own icons - there is always someone else to do the bidding.

The brown angels pour lava from the black hole pores pouring forth much more than the chasms from which the miraculously emerge.

Scientists are lost to the times forgotten to explainthe magic of man and his quest for nothingness.

The work shall not be mine.  The product of another's hand.  Skeletons til the dust.  When the day is done and the dignity pressed from my soul can I say that the I have earned everything with the sheer force of my bare hands.

A myth of light pierces the angry mob, the shattered skulls dampening the sirens with the broken dignity of the wretched poor laid to waste can the pigs fill the troughs with their succulent ethical snouts.