been bandaged together with twine and pieces of tape like a sculpture of a self portrait of norman rockwell on crank

or an escher devolving into the unscrupled madness of a bender on the wrong side of the tracks in hell wearing women’s panties and tap-dancing like a feral cat being tased

wearing my neon vest inside out and playing chicken in the middle of the highway daring any mother fucker to do more damage than i can inflict upon myself

haven’t been this broken since the last time i was left to rot with the rest of the roadkill by what’s her face with the great ass and emotional stability issues

playing possum in hopes someone scrapes me into the back of the truck and incinerates my still moving remains

seems i’ve woken up in the still life images of a graphic crime screen, chalk outlines and blood spatter analysis shows cause of death sometime in the late fifties to early two thousand aughts

well preserved, my beating heart caught in amber, in fifty thousand years they’ll splice my dna to a bullfrog and make the saddest abomination to ever scream for death with pretty words and a devilish grin

my knuckles hurt from pounding the walls, blood rails dripping down and mixing with plaster dust and dream stuff, my eyes hurt from the pressure of driving ninety with tears streaming, catching the light and making inverse rainbows on the side of my bald head

i need to shave and show some intent to live but it has been sucked out of me like a dyson vacuum that gained sentience

great for fur, existential crisis, and the cremated remains of happiness

life is wasted on the living dead remnants of gutter trash and would be poets

nothing but word play and no substance

everyone writes but who scribbles their death note in their own bile and feces

show me him and i’ll show you someone that actually fucking gets it

like really feels the cockamamie metaphors i peddle like a drunken street vendor with type two diabetes and venereal drip like a bad gasket in the faucet of the guest bathroom in junior executive suite at the hilton

this fucking guy gets the struggle of opening a vein in the vain attempt to mine his mind to separate himself from the works of art in his skull and the turgid worms hanging from his worn out asshole gasping for air and avoiding the antibiotics that got him into this mess in the first fucking place

i’d let out a primal scream but i’m not evolved enough to tap into my inner beast, just a cro magnon throwback to cave art and worshipping flames

and i worshipped a few in my day, let me tell you, kissed their feet and worshipped on my knees for hours at a time, lapping up their indifference like a man dying in the desert of their eyes

this is filth and i feel content to wallow in it, if you need me i’ll be drowning on vacant adoration, lying face up in hopes of asphyxiating on sullen fucking silence

take it at face value, i could have loved you in a way no one else could ever hope to imagine, i could have written lines that made the virgin mother wet with need, instead i pissed it all away on one roll of the loaded dice and lost it all in a back alley on easy street

i just dropped off the only things that matter to me in this shit infested ball of yarn and i have supplemented my immense sorrow for rage, so you’ll have to excuse me for a lack of concern on basic manners and the giving of fucks

sometimes poetry is pretty and gentle and rocks you to sleep

sometimes it is real and doesn’t give a shit about your feelings as it speeds into a brick wall

i’m not pretty and neither is my need