Mastication

There is a mountain in that mole hole.
Shades are window dressing
and the sun, more pallid than its nightly face,
teases us into believing
that taste is on the tongue,
so we all suck thumb to it,
suckthumbtion,
and we shall be in cars serrated,
incarserration,
nipped by slipping jaws of life
like some spider's accidental prey,
a mandibular prosecution or a brittle windfall.
It all depends on POV
like being scared shitless by prospective courage
or losing mirrors as they pass you.
Somewhere is a head-lamp installation,
a rush to sacrilege,
to the ritual scarification of unnecessary landscapes.
We are all kings of our own pouch of grit,
subversive lords of subjective submission.
Anti-lock de-icers
challenge the heat of captivity
& the breaking chill of a whispering libertine.
Diarists will write to you
of empty shells on linoleum
crushed by a vacuum sucking
EN-TITEEEEE
that legend relegates
to a martyrific & hopeful insomnia,
to a badly blued, rising weltsman,
as his being washed,
to laundry is
perhaps a promising desecration

.