We're all dying, anyway.

[Certain]

I'm a machete-wound tourniquet with the petty, rude earnestness
of heavy-boobed surrogates who envy dudes' perkiness.
Close my clip out. Steady, true, murderous. Frozen pin bout.
Heavens' blue firmaments holding Poland Spring's spout.
Exploded ink fount. Called to write my passages over rig towns
Walter White nefarious. Sober wig out in coffin-sized chariots.
Close my clip out. Altar rites. Marry us. Halter-bride fairy dust.
Broken-wing angels often fly clear of us. Joker ring, mangled.
Votive Spring candle. Only thing handled was hoping she'd cancel.

I'm a faceless shadow of death. Escape the cattle call.
Vexed, strafe with paddles. Incest. Change the battle log.
Crescent-moon habitual. Death and gloom, the visual.
Press it smooth. Best refuse metal tools for victuals.
Urbane elitist tested through the rituals but remained a deist.
Strange completeness strained the preachers, Cobain and Seacrest.
Cannon-fodder byproducts spray the bleachers. God'll try profit
but stain his T-shirt with the logo of ample-bodied sly foxes.
Trample hotties. Rhinoc'ros. Sands. Mogavi. Time Cop.
Cigarette-burnt fingertips. Lift the dead bird, Icharus.
Bigger heads burn quicker. Slip the sick their meds. Turn into us.