The Fake Pub Fire

Nerves tighten rubber hearts racing
But not from the three pints
We've already emptied.

I built an empty house as I criticized
Your lack of stone and masonry
Is work your frame would never fit.

Gracious apathy inside your well worn
Jeans that drag like the ones
That barely missed the tight verbal target.

When I aim I aim to take it all,
Like the arid leaf grasps at moisture.
Sucking desperately cultural lines.

One stop shopping for argument ending,
The ancient critic of overbearing art.
How foul the smell of diversity must seem,

A nature I fear I've come to admire.
Fear that keeps stones from blending
To sands that dry out our lungs.

Those missing things, sharp arrows and all,
Shed plenty of heat from the fake pub fire
And we'll have another, just for good measure.