Fags in Passages

Smoking Cigarettes and Hunting Witches…
By: Patrick Michael

Go ahead, reap these blood diamonds of Truth.

 I’ve kept them from nobody, allowed the fools to assume their position, missionary, doggie, whatever felt most natural for the time being.

 Call me out on my high horse, I mounted this steed instead of big game on my wall.

I don’t see what smoking gun you speak of…I don’t pull clay pigeons for nothing.

 Can you bust the disc in the air as it falls, or is that bow tie just enough to keep you humble?

 So much scathing hate among lyres,
I aim to strum this tune directly at your heart so we may pick up the broken pieces when it shatters.

 Don’t worry the sounds can mend the pieces by attracting magnetic centers.

Hearts of stone were always meant to mend while superheating in the hearth,
this fireplace, rounded with alternating composites of rubble, mud, treated would and what have yous.

My torch fell off the bandwagon, tumbled like a weed, igniting a place to warm our toes.

 So many fixtures, pebbles, charms and trinkets left out on counters, end tables, fractures and shears.

 No more wool to be pulled over our eyes, it’s been stitched into quilts,
fire blankets to put the fires out.
Please don’t extinguish this flame, it’s contained in this place.

 I’m grabbing sticks and twigs, so that we all may roast marshmallows.

 I hope to gather the tribes as diverse as they are, so we can dance and bang these drums in time to hear our elders word and honor our passed loved ones.