Sons of Thunder (Boanerges)

                                        i. James

                    You should put my nameplate on Death’s door,
he could really use a sledgehammer to the face
                    and an unmarked grave, wouldn’t you say?
If only hate would do so much more: cure this mouth’s
                    open sore, or turn your fear-battered
bullshit into Kentucky-Fried gold you cotton-
                    picking chickens and ass-lickers can
pull, as my lips persuade this tongue’s sword to slit its
                    rose-red stem growing fiery words,
these dents-de-lion choking a throat like weeds with
                    teeth that pack a punch, filling cheeks with
biting barbs, not lunch, hard wireless jaws I have to
                    applaud when my thoughts hit their targets
before even being fired, don’t stab me when you’ve
                    hurt it all before, since it’s a joy,
never a job, blowing up hearts, lame lays and bad
                    eggs playing our roles, watering oil
Fame already promised to old flames shame adorns.

                                        ii. John

                    Saying these things, I’ll invade your homes
with brazen-nude chloroforms of tamer fictions
                    you call mores, turncoat/tritone/turnkey
tunes burning to bone those social norms I abhor,
                    Kristallnachting your wide-eyed souls’ pried-
open doors, like broken windows my kind likes more
                    than life, sitting still for another
explicit “found-footage” picture depicting my
                    torture, the darkest pitch for which yet
another exec from corporate selects as
                    just-imperfect-enough for public
exhibition, in a town no one’s ever heard
                    of before, no “TL;DR”, “right-
swipe” option or “short version” of your misfortune
                    when I’m its author and you’re nothing,
picking through such litter a chore, when I can just
                    edit-it-out and sit where you let
Enlightenment® grow on you like mold, that easy-
                    chair throne where your TV “#DinnerGoals”
never go cold, torching from all your symbols their
                    “statuses” the underworld ignores,
threat of thunder such as ours what turns “clouds” to storms.