A Toast

Mashed soul faces, and the faceless who can arm or destroy, by their sullen movement which is never real, until like the fool who wanted the sea to rest, you try to stop it, and the weight snaps off your head as simple physical law. This is no metaphor, for the wishless the wet men going home under girders. The men who will never understand joy or joyousness until the last pure freedom loving liar is dead. Face down, wrapped in the movement of the sea. Words rotting the shining bone.