Muddled

The half-burnt tire lay in a corner, like an ugly word that had taken a bullet before it was out. The walls were graffitied with the standard anthems. Crushed cans of beer and butt-ends of cigarettes. In the center of the three walled cabin, like the jewel of a bad circus, was an ugly head, its hair matted with dirt and face covered in the grayish litter of a thousand fags.
Another woman joined the threesome on the bed. Lionel had the time of his life. The screeching of car brakes. The clunk of closing metal doors sticking together with science. Silence. The bullet did the 15 meter sprint with a red flower display of victory on the wall behind.

It’s a long road home,
Long like the lie of fidelity.
Spoofing the winds,
Some bird gargled it redundant ditty.

The man’s webs were strewn
As bombyliidae witnessed his bad rhyme.
It must’ve been a pretty rough road home
For the lights in the window
Were not often so warm
Nor the door so handsomely oak.

Devilishly tricky, she hadn’t let the sun rise.
The clouds were pregnant and scarlet.
The savior fetus stayed trapped.
So, it had been a dark day
(With a tinge of scarlet.)

When you’re at the gate,
Watch the lit window, wait
And savor the warmth behind closed oak doors.

There. Now, will you tell me how the geisha dance? Or heck, just stick a cigarette up my lips?