Hour Eight

The devil nestles underneath
car door handles
flooding lungs
and invading the bloodstream of society.
The drivers fein placation
with promises of Pleasure Island.
Nostrils extend
in deeply croaking breaths
heavy-handed and grappling
protests are caught in the throat
as a scurry of cement voices
rumble threats of thunder.
Pounding fists,
a gravel in the auction block.
The drivers offer no extended warranty
on each life absconded
a commodity of wonton lust
and exacerbated agony.
Lightning erupts in heads
with yet another fell swoop
bound by blackmail-
life, a refrain in melody
now a scourge of screams
ripping the insides of lungs out.
Poison fills the gaps
eroding self-worth
as another penny made
is yet another body that drops.
Veins a caustic bed of
venom worms squirming up forearms-
a belt to stave off flow
and retaliation in it’s conditioning.
They’re juxtaposed against an array of forms
classes and creeds stacked up on beds
pressing and expressing
the life from the fruit
of the victims.
Haunted eyes house crippling spirits
broken by the thrusts
of doggerel drivers-
pulling themselves forward.
Riches gather in the dragon’s lair
as it is chased into yet
another compound
with no means to identify
the treasure in each soul-
life, a fraction of what it used to be.
Dreams a congealed slur of
voices warning
coagulating through arteries
to stave the flow of life and emotion-
flogged for the biteback.
Innocence, a calamity
with silent prayers echoing
down hallways
manifesting rescue.
The drivers lick the
money from their fingers
like pork grease
and stalk about…
…watching…
…always watching
ever present,
until the siren’s call
beaconing justice
and honest resolve.
The drivers blanch
at the Sound of Freedom,
and hide behind their screens
praying their own prayers
that anonymity will save them.