Writing to Routine

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Making plans

Manipulating phrases

Chiseling poetry:

Fallen, forgotten, worlds

Nostalgia, fear

Connection, obsession.

7 worded nights

Fighting after they’ve taken

Your will to live

Fighting with nothing left to lose

Fighting with fingers

Mashed into

A potato fist

Clashing batons

Whipping, slashing rounds

And I’ll stand in the middle of

The battleground

With little, but

Crippled fists

From bashing faces

Into misconceptions

Of “art”

Only the greats would envy

If they could only see

If the product

Wasn’t so impermanent

As a newly born author

Picking up his first pen

In the street

Outside his first

Wholesale purchase

Of cheap liquor.

 

Wavering in Dark Places

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The ground was cold on the night

Foe became more than friend

The leaves fell from the trees

And your tarnished hands

So softly held the last flower

In bloom

But your hands hold no water

And the sun

Is yet to be seen.

And just like every beautiful

Offspring

It choked in your grasp

If I could place you in the recess

Of my memory

Trap you in the insanity of my mind

Tighten the grip

Thirsty, crawling

And celebrate

Dancing in your anguish

Me and my demons

Prancing

Revolving,

Prepared to feed with lustful eyes

And the needs of a lonely lover.

Bastards

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“I can fuck any bitch I want”

Rattling off foul consonances and vowels

The terrible mantra boys

Chant off in the school yard

Like throwing mud on the third

Grade sweetheart

That makes their mother so ashamed

Ironic

They can say these things

Off the cuff

When the father

They’ve never met

Sits at a bar in Mexico

Says the exact same things

About their mothers.

We know how it feels to sit

On top of the world

And spit on the creatures below

Like birds on a telephone wire

Waiting for the one wearing

The worst day

To add insult to injury

Into the Urinal

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I dip my toes

Into the urinal

For the plastic ocean

Is too pure for me.

Humanity isn’t transparent

Sparkling

It’s deteriorating

Yellow puss

Steaming fat

Urine

                Rot

                                Worthless.

Loss of Words

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These are the moments

On frost bitten edge

When a pretty face

And a well written word

Asphyxiates

Instead of astounds

When swimming lessons

Make you drown

Falling over each other

With clashing lips

When words

Can’t hurt enough.

Losing a Finger on Their Label

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I want them all to think I’m some radical insane

Feeding on the deteriorating morality

Of their McCarthyism

I want to be the one cockroach

That picks up the foot and tosses

The capitalist aside

I want to be the procommunist

                                Procapitalist

That everyone can find a piece to hate

Labels are like diseases

Slowly you watch pieces

You once cherished fall and

Rot from the bone

As one conforms and

Three murders two,

Only four three to find

He’s been played

By the all powerful five