Pop Culture Reference

I am fully antic.
The Carlisle Luxury Time-Piece awaits
your wrist, just as the pencil-thin mustache
vanishes from your lip,
indicating renewed sobriety
and the total diminishment of artistic merit.
Jellyrolls appear in the snowbank,
lovingly mended by the winds of anomaly.
Gruesome dismemberments of logic snorkle
through a razor-reef of air-quoting fingers.
I stand in solidarity with the many
faces I've assumed throughout
my non-union lifespan.
The airport terminal, wearing a pair
of Android's wings, receives the lesser men,
the ones who have cried
at the athletic shoe's slogan
and in the dim light of flagship's marquee.
Towers clang, ruffling up the cowlick
at the back of the raven's neckhair and
I am morbidly regretful as the shockwaves
of denial parse the quick evacuations
of daylight. A squirrel clambers up
the spine of a drainpipe beneath
the reawakened night, which caps the sky
like a blight. Refusals of pained love cry out
into fugitive moons offering little more
than the abandoned light
of the 12 Chambered Hours in return.
A crucial blizzard shucks the clouds
as the great blade of the plow
bullies the slush to the sides of the road.
My refined stupidity makes an appearence
in the wake of an especially poignant birthday.
Fireworks startle the atmosphere
and souvenir kazoos are fellated
in next week's very special episode,
which was filmed before a live studio
audience comprised entirely of
disinterested and foreign-tongued manques.
The broom of the fire's longevity crumples
our aborted template and lobs it
into the sewage wastebasket.
I should've died that day in Paris
but my hat was too far askance.
The malleable heartscape
of a doughy blonde carries her
to the apex of Mulholland,
where the phallic clocktowers deny recollection
of any antecedents in medieval numbers.
Somebody has to take dictation
for the insane, however,
I plead Sanity, Your Honor:
this man was required to receive
the benefit of death at my hands:
A blind man better understands
the cold chamber's embrace.
Senorita falls to the dust in her finest serape.
Deserts abound beyond the fringes
of the unschooled township
of Bonewater, New Mexico,
Est. 1803 on a tepid foundation
of impassioned misinformation.
In the old Spanish Mission
I hear the Clergy murmuring:
Forgive us this day our daily bread
as we forgive those who trespass against us
forever and ever    Amen.