The Omaha Chainsaw’s Wrestling T-shirt Store
Help a fellow out if you need new black scary-looking T’s for your wardrobe this fall.
To bleed like men or bend like grass
Surrendering to violent wind
To march to dirges loud and fast
Or surrender to our own skin?
I lead a vile army; by file and rank they march.
“To victory or death,” we cry…
…but know it matters not.
I oft’ imagine you in mostly black and white
Like Sin City, on fire, and we’re dancing in
Muzzle flashes pop like paparazzi camera bulbs and
I pray you’ll let me hike up that skin-tight, poured-into dress
I want to kiss your kitten
And leave you just…a mess.
My prized possession
Your hips pressed to mine
Legs: tight and intertwined
Arms: Flailing to the skies
Pulling down pillows like pillars upon your glorious visage
Unleash your screams into my strength, submission.
Let me pull up the covers
The cover of dark laying calm upon us like a blanket of solace
Cold air vaults over and under the edges and makes us draw inwards
Into each other, curled together like ancient tree roots.
Let me lay here with you, till our bedroom becomes our tomb,
till our cemetery flowers bloom as the cameras zoom in
to Catch the Scene…believe me, beloved, I love holding you
under the cover of dark.
Forlorn love, yet I see on horizon far…dreams reborn.
Scorn of Sun-drenched morn after sun-drenched morn.
Upon lips of sauntering whores who know nothing but “more, give more.”
(Yet they are poor and needy, and “whore” is used to as lightly and frequently as “bleeding” and they may be both…One doth not know the circumstance, so how can we now deliver recompense in hypocritical judgements, I beg?)
Dreams Reborn come on Sunlight’s rise from morning black.
Attack the day voraciously, as a heart attacks falling in love.
And from above, you may be gripped with a brighter dove…
…with your horrors truly and deeply wounded, and your dreams reborn.