Tea Leaves and Upturned Tables

Here is my tongue, blackened, with a bite,
just the way you said you like it,
or love it, or hate it, or take it,
or leave it, or save it for later.

There is a perfect balance somewhere between
a bleeding heart and complete detachment.
There is a violent fire burning within,
but I also tend
to wear a shit smug grin,
shrug my shoulders,
and say aw-shucks a lot.

Here is my war, red, raging,
open for the season,
slaughtered in the jungle,
roaring on the mountain.

Poetry is not my final form,
but it put a gun against my guts
and then demanded that I start spilling.
The truth is not a game we play.
All our cards are laid upon the table
with five aces and a hint of blood.
I would never sell my soul,
but I might consider
loaning out just a little piece
if the check is cut
fat enough to clear.
You would do the same.

Here is my spirit, indigo, glowing,
ready to pop out the front of my skull,
boiling to burst the bubble of boredom,
ticking with the turning tocks of time.

This life is served raw on a silver platter.
I came to feast and dance and laugh
and cry and weep and wail and moan.
I came to kiss the spaces where sin sleeps
and lick the core of absolution
until it springs awake and into action.
I came to slap the face of fallen angels
and break the nose of demons
that try to sniff their way into our order.

Here is my flag, striped, with stars,
rising when the night seems darkest,
waving with a righteous wind,
dawning as the sign of New Atlantis.

Scott Thomas Outlar is a lover of truth and enjoys researching philosophy, psychology, politics, spirituality, and any other facet of consciousness in the pursuit of reaching a higher state of vibration. He also enjoys writing rants, poems, essays, short stories, and prose-fusion screeds covering such subjects. Scott Thomas can be reached at 17numa@gmail.com. You can also watch and/or subscribe to his YouTube Channel Read other articles by Scott Thomas, or visit Scott Thomas's website.