Shakespeare can eat my shorts!

That brilliant, blazing ball of fright,

My envious glee sees her flares throng your tissue,

Apprise her, show my hands caught in red light,

Deliver my sincerity, I won’t be of issue.

Flaky flaps, with dubious acts send bedlam to your tomb,

The serpent’s tongue sails easily into oblivious ears, 

The broken rib of god’s first, that bonded hell and womb,

Starved hands, ogling for fruit hidden in vines of fears.

The Ten Commandments only tell what thou shalt not do,

The setting lays unchanged, the mood motioned for vote,

Surging, stricken by vile images of a missed cue,

Knees giving way to the plucking of a tired note.

Hacking and coughing up the remnants of the past,

My flesh cracks, a smile’s pass, to be glad with you even if it could not last.