two middle fingers aren’t nearly enough

four thousand
five hundred
darts thrown
at a swaying board
on the backside
of a braying
incontinent
jackass

at times
i wonder at
when the well
will dry
when
thewindchimesthebirds
thewildflowersthefool
thedevilthemoonthecoffee
thesquirrelsthevoid

will just go
silent

will my madness
eventually
reach a point
where it becomes
indecipherable

has it already

i will write
one last fuck you
to death
as i lay dying
and then spit
in the devil’s eye
as i look
for something
to scribble on
in hell

4500 poems. what’s wrong with me? thanks for coming along for the ride. i love you. one of you. -me

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