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Scrap-Cackler

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Free wave for the keyboard slave.
Suds and duds.
All must go.

Funky flunkies and bored burners alike,
all flock to the stock to see what’s on strike.
I raise my fists in a cry to the crowd
as I cultivate rage, nurture silent to loud.
Pinching a synapse from inside my ear,
I pull on the handkerchief,
endless I fear.
All doubt and all joy,
found routes and lost toys,
spill into a tangled pile;
perennial pasta
for all to enjoy.

I present my golden fork to the gods of cerebral spaghetti and await approval.
Their eyes are as hungry as my own gut growler
but I’m not sure I’ll win that fight should it come to blows.
The lions eat first.
And we are but hyenas,
hungry Scrap-Cacklers,
waiting in the flank for a shred of the main corpse to flutter from the table of the divine dine.
Ecstatic we are to see such a sliver that we’d cut our own throats before letting it get swallowed by another’s.
MINE.
With feral ferocity we leap at our chance.
The golden ticket that turns desperate runaways into curators of the devil’s chocolate.
Wannabe Wonkas, the lot.
Roaming around the deep-drown south,
foaming through the teeth in their mouth.
An unquenchable thirst for the blood flood.
And who shall give it to us but ourselves?
The only true source of creative sustenance comes from
giving a twist
to the faucet at our wrist.

We put parched lips to the mist
to the open wellspring
of mortal insight
and seal it
with a kiss.
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