Death of Metaphor

Well, here is my red plastic shopping cart

Photo by Brookelyn Borchardt on Unsplash

Hey metaphor you’re a bit like a simile but I’m on a non-dictionary killing spree. On your back with a machete to make your skin confetti and throw the whole damn administration out with the dead cat.

Yep, you’ll just say I’m around the bend again, prescription ran out, idea drought. Well, here is my red plastic shopping cart. Whenever I see your face, I no longer control it. It runs toward your desecrated house spilling millions of ballots.

You fucking metaphor. Red and blue and shades of green and yellow lemons are true, but you are false. I love my dog.

When you want to score with chicks, it’s: Have some chicken feed. When you proceed with women, we hear you say: let’s breed on the floor of an island house or houses (you have more) and NDA spouses we could be.

Hey metaphor don’t run away. I don’t mean to slay you with sex crimes. Don’t mean to play the tricks of truth on you. Sometimes I get carried away like when I was a kid with matches. I burned both foreign and domestic adversaries.

Yep, we’re both crass. I joke of bombs and cancer because the answer is more coffee.

Holy book of dreams. You are ready to scream at your death: no cream. You finally see your shallow shadow on the tombstone wall. And three hundred million hearts bounce back from slumber at the news. Yes, that’s an irrational number alright, but that’s a metaphor for you. They got an amusing index, and the confusion they cause needs a talented engineer to redress. It frightens decent Christians who get upset at their mothers. It smothers the last guru in his sleep. Waterfalls weep fire.

And when they do the steam blinds airplanes passing over the Midwest. Jet engine metaphors plunge into clichés like scarified sons and daughters cast into the Nile.

Hey metaphor your problems are mine too. We both want bigger balls, but I accept what I got and thank the lower case lord for the possibility of a pine box knowing I have given it my best while you have given it your worst.

Well let’s spill guts. Have you ever capped your iron pistol? I remember bartenders who swung the barroom door with a smile to offer me rye. And I would grasp the third rail and holler: Bring me a metaphor! No Ice! Bring me a spicy slab of meat to eat!

You sat in your privilege and licked spittle. You went to a pretend war while others ripped their youth into pieces. You laughed at our sacrifice.

You know. Tough love isn’t tender when I’m on a bender. And if I make it though to your funeral intact I promise to remember you were a flawed human being too. Wish I was fibbing.

Meanwhile. There’s a hardcore metaphor whore knocking. It’s but a symptom of what ails us. We can block the phone line but it don’t help. Rocking round the clock don’t bring relief neither. We got to have our own power.

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Thank you for reading and this comes from a long time ago now visited with updates that make me wonder why way back then these things mattered. They did but differently than now in that we all wanted to make the world a better place somehow. And somehow we did. Victor David.