BAIL OUT THIS
POINTED QUESTIONS FOR WALL STREET
© Don Brennan
When did you become anxiety’s answer to every question, a deity in bare feet, no rings, waiting to be kissed on your hairy knuckle?
When did you rise upon your toes shaking inflamed eye-sockets, hands pushed down in our pockets demanding retribution?
Flesh will do as well as chicken wings or a pound of cash dripping grease from crippled hearts struggling to pump their last bits of blood in your direction.
Just when did you mistake your crumbling liver for a death’s head’s bleached bone, the empty infested hole where your nose used to be for power over me?
So your greed has forever been my nemesis born of breath’s contractions, since we were born together at time’s beginning.
But we both know time has no beginnings, has never had to sniff down hound dog trails looking for purposes and ends, we both know.
But you alone know why you need to lie, need your dose to get high, why you need to remain insane, not I.