i was reading hank and pablo this evening, class for three straight days made my mind exhausted, the constant pain keeps my body lethargic, all in all it has me feeling sub par in every way

between the two of them there isn’t a goddamned thing worth writing, no expression to be expressed, no dream left undreamt, yet here i lay, half asleep wishing to contribute

a fool with too many thoughts and not one of them original, a string of stream of conscious ramblings that beguile with syllabic dissent yet lack any hidden meaning except for a string of bile dripping

i don’t want to be them, just whispered in the same breath, which is laughable as i am no womanizer, no degenerate, no gambler, no drunk, no addict or any of the great foils of greatness

an idiot with a empty smile, a forum the same as any other in which to spew too many lines with not enough substance into world where everyone is a fucking poet or writer or shill

well you can take your acclaim and grandiose words and choke on every last line of brilliance while i wallow in a pool of my own misgivings, my own near fatal wreck of bad decisions

i am as much a poet as a jalopy is a high end sports car, as much a writer as a bird is a fish, yet still i bend the laws of penmanship into a pretzel while dreaming of bending you much the same way

i am as likely to travel back and piss on pablo’s rose bushes and let hank see me tongue kiss the red head just to pay both with spite for the words i cannot utter in my infantile insignificance

take this vile acknowledgement of appreciation and spite you rotten bastards, your poetry and my feeble rants, ball them up and choke in them with a bottle of red wine and the scent of the ocean

one day i will give up and the two of you will still be famous as i sputter to the grave in an unmarked potter’s field on some stormy island in the middle of nowhere with a blank marker

if there is a hell it is where all great poets end up, seated at the big table while they recite pedantic odes to hellfire and long for the crucibles that formed them while wishing for one more

while the ones like myself squander their time scrubbing halos for the people that lived their lives instead of writing shit for twelve people to give a precursory glance at in disdain

the hypocrites and martyrs get their stories immortalized, the struggling only get new scars and calluses as they barely squeak by, hank and pablo get drunk with whores in the sunshine halcyon