Crypt Fugitives

  

In our world, sparkling stars shine here and there incessantly.

 Our stars shine in our stars,

 in our stars, in our stars.

 Each vain mirror is also a slavish,

 disgraced shipwreck of itself,

 like the truer but tearful eye

 under the mascara of mascara, 

which can never lie again.

Like illuminated lamps, 

the spiky coral of islands

 beneath the diva's and the dandy's downy feet,

 he who does not look hard enough, 

or thinks too highly of himself, will stumble.

The incarnate hieroglyphics

 of our language, once of the days

 of the eye, are still jealously

 guarded by a few prophet-writers,

 relegated to ivory towers.

 They demand the introduction

 of new censorship rules in the currish,

 while mummy-voiced crypt-runners

 with their scalpel-snouts

 negate and persecute unsuspecting fugitives.

 No amount of loyalty-demonstrating morality

 or hand-holding empathy is worth anything,

 at most on the surface.

Diamond necklaces balance

 on the beautiful but mab lines

 of alabaster necklaces,

 while the golden ear pendants

 outbid each other in the twisted,

 proud light while juggling for new acrobatic feats.

 To no avail! Long ago, 

career-killing, narcissistic sociopaths

 and naked angel prostitutes

 were forced to balance,

 because they will always

 have to survive on the wheel of the revolving world,

 and if necessary,

 become famous and great by betrayal.

 Every brain with a nut to crack

 could do with some cultural shaping,

 not just a moral law in the flesh

 or a devious plot.

 All careers are doomed,

 and will sink in the end!