Parricide is not pretty,
but in a time of swallowed splinters,
there emerges a new confidence,
and no one is safe from
the absolute certainty of the Crack.
When anger is awake and ungoverned
the Almighty Metal Guru draws near to tease.
The wheel turns as young wreakers and hoakers,
already tucking boredom in their belts,
dash through familial barriers
straight into the Crack’s improbable deathhole.
Suddenly, we are all prey:
heavy weights flailing and falling
past previously pitted lives
towards our own bloody demise.
Unable to climb smooth surfaces
society begins to fester,
scraping the walls with botulinal nails;
kicking itself with blister boots.
Oh, those ugly days of lost heritage;
elders supping tears together, whilst
so many futures are crossed
by the star thin silver reticle
of the Almighty Crack.