There is an underside to
everything. An underhanded
compliment and a backhanded
insult. Uppers and downers,
bring downers and outers.
And sometimes you’re just
a party favor. A pinata, for the
junkies and the drunks to stab
when, their paychecks run dry.
But we all know what we want
to say next. That it’s all just a
facade for the broken and those
painted rich. “You’re only as rich
as you look,” and she’s slobbering
at the bankrolls, that hover
above the bars. That hover above
the black tar in the tin foil, above
the flame and below the nose and
above the teeth that never move,
unless there is something
in the way of, talking.
And the underside,
is red hot. The way God
will look down on us all,
when we die.