Blasted

Without and with inward crashing, toast me to the devil’s mattbone, I salute sweltering sun, always brining away at me to rise up this courage, make life what in tricky tree truth it is/never has been/always could be...ah, if we were starving I’d feed you blood from my wrists, let you drink in my life, as you, lost in worldstance and genuflect confusion, your communion makes me radiant, grow in fire, emerge from that old convict feeling and tremble forward, head hitting floor a tumble thousand times till I have that mark of humble devotion (an ideal),,,but, ah, I’m lazy and I have no children yet, and my wrists are brimming with blood, as I am definitively not starving and I work no fields and my fight for justice right now seems to take place only on my inside, and rating sunsets doesn’t get a guy to heaven, though ratifying them...no robots to simplify battles, drones from on high coming in to blast me as I dodge sideways, thisaway/thataway, hurl my last fuel-filled dynowhateverpod at encroaching robot star-invasion ships, thus saving all from sure destruction...but it didn’t happen, I was home writing, and someone else nabbed glory, and me, me was merely winking at them starships, thinking what kind of poems they must be writing, with all that time to cross the galaxy, damn...