CLAUSTRO-NOT-SO-PHOBIC

My window sill is ebony black glass still web on it,dark rain spills everything cracked, sealed shut to keep out the elements,the dust and the clout that have my eyes sticking out enjoying the view or trying to spy joy in the view notice what's new the smoke,fire and stew but still peeping still creeping still sticking indoors where it's safe where the lies and AK's can't reach my ear spew idea's that instil fear, in the still clear consience thats my olny guidance coz only guys dance to gun-shots like butch and Sundance... Has me knowing that its not safe outside not safe to run behind Bolt if you aint Tyson, and not safe to eat ice-cream if you ain't Marvin fate using us as live bait as we wait we're preyed on by opportunity sprayed on by urea's acidity laid on by explicity so torn by ethnicity that we don't recognize the melanin, the pigment that makes us alike, or different all like the contrast that's God's intricate design not destined for confusion like that time at Babel or now when we con everything, from con-stituency to con-tinental with con-sistency we even con fusion... Killer priests with killer cysts who insist on charitable assists... Some from Nice others Espana some who Renato Sessana our innocent vijana mocking The Lord while singing Hosana out of spite... But who are we to judge, to throw the first stone when the givers have one hand in your pocket the beggars exposed to bullets the albinos our own version of leperchauns our greed after the pot of gold they've hidden at the end of the rainbow driven by egos we soil where we go emphasizing the fact that man is man's worst enemy, in this man-eat-man existance that worries me so the walls around me,they know me they protect me from me they eaves-drop as i channel my pleas and petitions to my maker...THE GRAND ARCHITECT... They protect me from the grand scheme of things, the suicide bombers directing their fury to the wrong place... The ashoessinators who love dead presidents but aim retired ones the jobless friends who mug and maim retired bums for a meal our to-be-brides who hit it with our dads for extra credits,give head to Deans as old as our grandads and the mystery that's survival so i sit behind this veil that's oblivion, this smoke screen that's smoke and mirrors,like its a drill... Waiting for that moment when doom ricochets on these same walls and puts me out of this stifling space that's caving in by the minute, no guns or roses, or guns and roses, just blood and cartilage splattered on cement, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and Peace.