poem || Scott Thomas Outlar

Six into Seven

Tongue tied, twisted up in knots,

catching a cold case of three ring circus

in the back of the throat –

spit it out, lest ye choke

on the circumstantial evidence

of a turncoat phrase…laid to waste

by the treachery of a silver knife

pressed tight to the side of a jugular vein

juggling the pain in front of the king –

laughing obscene, howling through dreams

of an empire’s rage…wasteland on full display.

Oil fields and diamond shafts

shutterstep across plasma silicon valley persuasion,

dripping with chocolate propaganda

laced in vanilla honey lilac maple syrup paradise –

skin soothed by open wounds,

bleeding out with doomsday plumes –

up in smoke, out of luck, triple six

branded on the wrists, followed fast

by sunsplashed sevens marked on the forehead

as an escape route to salvation –

kicking up dirt in the face of the Beast…

dust, grime and ash prepared for the feast

devoured in full, electric gut swirl

all a-twirl in the splendor of a glowing ember

raging red hot with coal-kissed carbon cries

polluting the hazy skies…violently pried

a beam from the eye…judgment decried –

holy happy hour hallelujah on a soapbox pedestal

raining down the ivory tower shards of glass…

house of cards sure to smash

in the futuristic fallout, fade away, quick to blaze

righteous on the singsong cross

after three days of a sweltering solstice…

begging for the solar savior to return in full glory

of glamour in the midnight hour retribution ceremony.