Mr.Blue descends the stairs as the bus door folds open,
Pressed gray suit, jet black hair
slicked with grease from that morning's breakfast
(Don't knock bacon fat styling gel 'til you've tried it).
His Rolex reflects that glint of sunlight
peeking out from a week long cloud.
His grin is born from the stuff of angels
if you allow demons into the category.
Recall that once their glory was considered holy
'til someone held a trip wire then insisted they'd fallen.
What's fair in war proven even in Heaven.
Time to put on the shades as his pupils dilate to tiny,
he doesn't like to limit his sight,
hates when his body reacts without his permission.
Biology assuming its right to rule,
putting a guy like Blue in an unbearable position as copilot,
with no hands or controls,
spectating the dials and praying the whole thing won't explode.
Same goes for heartbeat acceleration,
pacing metronomed by an unseen keeper
whenever that girl is in his atmosphere.
An unseen force increasing the speaker volume of his blood beating stereo.
Fight as hard as lightening but its a flood
and poor fools levees are paper.
Ink on green cotton canvas with heads of dead celebrities who won the vote
His money can't keep down the swelling,
the lump in his throat gaining life force of its own,
threatening to cut his off completely
unless he calls out her name.
GOD, fuck biology, hostage crisis, to him they're the same.
Blue adjusts his aviators
ready for takeoff, shakes his head just a second
then remembers who's boss of this journey.
The guy in cowhide shoes calls the shots.
He's got a wallet full of power and to him that's enough to feel confident.
Just be careful not to notice
when your honeymoon anthem is whispered from the radio.
Or when the cashier's perfume matches you know who's...
But sure, you've got this one, no worries Mr. blue.
You've got it all figured out.
Nothing touches you.
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