The Same Goes For The Incredibly Discredited - Poem by Zac Wittstruck

as they watch
from the sidelines of life
their own brethren getting creamed, aided by the earnest
coughing of the waking dead. Below, the tunes keep playing the forgotten ballads of next week and before that

the man in the tan hat stands as he will when waiting for the magic

to pass. By the car,
across the window, inside the painting, there is an amiable person
gleeking
across the stage into the urine-filled bidet while
the bedspread hosts games of vernacular structure
towards fruition.
Lately, it seems, there have been complaints in regard
but not excluding the famed pharaohs of pink bows
and when will they arrive? This may
be the only reason the weak end
the war. Ears flagrantly flap the screeching missiles

into play for better or best, whichever is worse. This is no thing
to think of at all
ever, however. How

must the gust of dust
just rust
if it never regains
their trust? What with
wetting the remaining subtleties over the silken moth of
subtitles, the incredibly long trash
compactor
reenacts the climax of its past and
opens a present in the
future.
The incongruent
angular discharge of a later
offering of soliciting makes the bladder open
and clothes stain the straining ladder of footstep clatter, but

the wind waits in the
wake of a weltering wave
of no proportion

equivalent to
its own creation. And so
it must be then that

the foreign doctrine
challenges her foes to an
innocent match of

foosball while crying
in sleet and rain covered wind.
This is the end of

it all, as she suspected in the first place, near the beginning of
the finish line of life. But when
will it ever be again so cold for the crowds of well wishers
to know exactly how it might
melt from the conflicted persona, and not to mention
the rising action?

But why wait?

Enter through the exit that lets you
flex your triangular lexus, just in
case lowering
it results
in finite
displays of multiplexes.
Whatever works for you, says the
man made telly ‘copter as
it lands deep in the ocean and
implodes from backfiring
armadillos. The armored pillows do not
react to the deafening news
as it is their duty to someday
pay their dues to whosoever
they may voluntarily choose
to take out for an evening
snooze, but not before dinner followed

by an electronic cigarette
smoking contest sponsored and
hosted by a miraculous slice of
roast on burnt toast. Whatever
dresses your castle in the clouds, as they say,
but never think, or do, but
the joke is on who? That is
exactly how the crew knew
which was the Jew. Embarrassed,

the man-made milk man carried the bridesmaid
out of the window,
down forty floors,
and into a pool
of blood, not to be
confused with an inoperable
elevator shaft, and there he watched and learned as a parade of snide snakes
learned to skate
while decorating a giant crate
of not so missed license plates,

and all this
while the boys laughed
and cried simultaneously despite the neutral tone
of the speaker of the house of pancakes.

Poems by Zac Wittstruck

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