whatever tickles your fancy

Watch the angels behind closed eyelids;
they dance like spectrums of golden light,
beautiful in swirls of truth and mist,
mixing their way into the air, the sweetest perfume.
The fog won’t rise, m’dear, not tonight;
not when the fantasies of a thousand men must be played,
not when the dreams of a nation must be driven,
we have so much time to play, endless time!
We must drink merlot while playing the hand of death;
laughing wildly at those—those ridiculous clowns of mercy,
those fools who ponder life and droop the weary eye on drowning philosophies,
“Not I,” said the mouse.
Flip your card, ace?
Do we have a good hand, soldier?
Shall we face fate with a bold façade, or shall we wait for another drink?
Two can play this game.
With words like blades against soft skin,
the danger is so sweet, a laxative of soft emotions,
bring it on, life; we have more to spare--
we can throw Molotov cocktails and quote Shakespeare as we wait.
A whirlwind of abstract motion,
displays of frantic movements marked by white frost on the night air,
you can sing that tune, we know the name,
play the strings, they don’t break,
in a field of violets or lavenders or whatever tickles you fancy,
it doesn’t exist anyways, so who the hell cares?
It’s your life and your dream; do you want to kill yourself? Go on,
we don’t provide protection for your follies,
Go drown yourself in a lake of mystic perception,
we can all have a good laugh when the bubbles escape to the surface.

All for one and one for all, eh?