Stakes.

[Certain]

I'm a broken record, skipping pebbles across the pond.
A rebel who lost his cause, stubble accosts the jaw.
Debonair? Probably not. Neckless turtle conforming to shell.
Dormant; swore it was hell but cursively mourned it myself
in letters that never meant anything until they served as a portrait befell.
Blazing arrow, regifted but misguided, tortured, repelled.
You pulled that excuse out of your ass. Of course it would smell.
I enter to a coroner's knell. But this isn't about death.
I promise, this isn't about death. I promise.
I've written my bounced checks.
This isn't about death.
I promise.
Did I mention I'm a consummate liar conquering rhythms without depth?
Feel that bass drop. That's a fish. It wriggled from our nets.
Now we're all going to starve. But this isn't about death.
We're turning over in comfortable linens in our beds,
trying to get the tuck right as we fidget and count threads.
But maybe there's more to this than digits and loud sex.
No, that can't be right. Let's revisit the crowd's bets.
They want exquisitely loud sex, with gymnastic contortions,
and gold-wire coat-hangers for more-dapper abortions.
Let's recast our extortions as the economy forces a trickle-down,
but when I ride with the chrome, there's no horses or triple crowns.