Fry Side

Dressing for coming battle, all black, rune hat on;

Shoes like biscuits, mint form so bygone.

Three pants repeat, wolf in the sheeps innards,

Every day unending i just manufacture dinner.

The beginnings tough but certainly this wizard will ascend,

I am everything from need you now, to oh let's just be friends.

Navigate the maze of gussied up awaiting service,

And replenish all my ammo for the certain coming skirmish.

Oil vats are bubbling awaiting rendered poultry,

Several baskets out of order, and the salamanders faulty.

Span a mess of tiles which has cozied up and bade adieu,

Encroachment of the batter caked up thickly to invade his shoes.

The night is a long vowel, some screech, some howl,

I'm evolved enough to notice it's coyotes stalking fowl.

Lost in a sea of endless tickets,

Build station in anarchy we're climbing from the thicket.

Endless sea of orders manifesting flipping innards,

Think i need a cigarette, a break is only wishes.

I see through smoke the visage,

Of haunted eyes peering back, reliving recent mission.

It's slowing down so we climb out,

Everything's destroyed like the site of a bombed house.

Restock and pick up pieces,

Trained to go like pitbulls breaking off their leashes.

Facilitators of the feasting,

And it's killing me i need to quit, someone get me a genie.

Pretty sure that's not a thing.

F*k it I'll persue any anomaly, I'm seeking out salvation,

I can't do it anymore I'm not up to the fryer station.

— Ace Rey. From The Book of Souls, a first collection in progress.