Trauma

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A cringe worthy cloak

Creature of the gutter

Grime of the underworld

Forsaken shadow

Forbidden shadow

Unworthy shadow

Secretion of the mouth of hell

Coagulated hate

                Shame

                Regret

Lurking memories

Lurking stain of the psyche

Stalking stain on man’s mind

Stalking whimper

Pushing Passion

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Fascinating Finds

From frail to fruition

From fracture

To SPACE

And the opportunity of white lines

Consciousness is a leech

Bulging, benign

And every sober word

Rhymes with lost time

Thyme and sage, Rosemary

Lines the foot of my bed

With a bouquet of flowers

Because I won’t be resting

When I’m dead

Choke Collar

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You deceive me
With your hand against
my bruised cheek
and the other excavating
my insides

“see”

I didn’t know
That the lining of my stomach
Could thread me through
to neck, to noose,
to bumper

Of snarling
Rusted
Shell
Of what was once
Potential

Before snow snuffed
Up jolly noses
She traces back

sunny side up smiling
Burnt to the asphalt
Road rash face mask

She crams my resigned inners
Twisting
What once was
A man I was proud of

Now
macabre
Dirty laundry
Stinking mildew
And self pity

She picks up reanimated
Affinity
And locks me in a glass room
Scratching at crystallized pane

When it breaks
And I make a run for it
The choke collar tightens
Knowing happiness
Is quick at the tips
Of your grasp
And never quite
Obtainable.

How to Rebel From those Convulsions

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I walk into class
Reeking of cigarettes
The cheap ones
I so poorly roll myself

I turn my back to the green world
Pleading for a spoon feeding
To see how much
Rat poison I can endure

They say it doesn’t kill you
It just makes you weak
Blunt

You can feel it hit
Like an I.V.
Electrical charges
Plugged into the outlet

They so easily find
Where the neck tapers
At the blind spot
On the back of my head

Initially it shocks
Tazes
Convulsions
Strapped to their hospital bed
Scalded, 3rd degree burns
For a reaction
As natural as death, blue skys, and insanity

I claw at the nurses
Her eye made a popping sound
When I dug my fingers in her skull
And pried it out

I gave mercy, I left the eye
She kept her dignity
It sits on her cheek
Functional

She sits, watching the children Scaring the children
Playing ball in the park
But their eyes haven’t receded either

They sit, plump on rosy cheeks
And like she once did
Before death
Before reanimation

She can see
Sometimes
A simple cleaning of the lens
Isn’t enough

* I do not condone violence against women and believe it should be punished to the fullest extent within and outside of the law. It’s not cool.

The futility of Perfect Poetry

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The futility of perfectionism in poetry

The forever foreboding

Lacking

The waste of pinpointing

A collage of perspective

Wheezing out

A sag of wordplay

Or finding wisdom

Rearrange shit

To spell your name

Whine at loneliness

For the lover

Before you label

It art

Shipped in a

Cardboard box

Next Tuesday

Sharpen the damn blade

The thick skin
that dog determined
won’t detatch

watching the guillotine
dropping, dropping
drip by drip
with each passing
day

If it would just sever
the anti climactic finish
sweat seeping
from frustrated pores

I’ve been residing in the basket
since the new year’s eve party
dropping again, again
but at best
a nic

Decapitation
but it’s been so long
they keep my cranium
in their filing cabinet
rusted shut

Creative Mind

I live in the back of his mouth
Somewhere in his navel
Behind the yellowing teeth
And the endless assault
Of smoke
And hallucinogenic

I live somewhere behind all of the work
All of the writing
All of the pain and the misdirected hate.

Forget the Kids (Trigger Warning)

*Trigger warning as this material deals intimately with school shootings. It is not as a means of disrespect or belittling. School shootings are horrid and far too frequent.

Dressed in a green camouflage and dark boots he stepped into puddles like mortar shells being fired into the ocean. An unjustified, misdirected rifle is slung over his shoulder. The rain stings and is unforgiving against the flat of his neck. It stings his eyes in the contrast of the sunrise. He reaches his post, whistling “We don’t need no education” and unperturbedly silences the screams of an angry flame at the end of mistaken power. He sees the reflection of a god with his mighty trident when he stares at the mirror. He will be remembered, this is his legend. Children scream, teachers hiding students in gymnasiums, closets, corners are murdered for their loyalty. Afterwards the memorials are meticulous and frequent; an event to bring people together; people entirely unrelated, people from hundreds of miles away. If it wasn’t for the grim, sordid looks on the faces of the mothers and fathers you’d think it was a celebration or a grand festivity. In time they dwindle. In time the families of the deceased aren’t asked to meet with the righteous TV show hosts pretending to sympathize. In time even their closest relatives avoid them in a fear that they may remind or reinstate the pain the soldier had given. The fame from their misfortune follows a long downward spiral and all that remains is the legend of the mighty, dreadful soldier trudging through the red mud.

Queen of the Material World

She had a seam on the small of her back
We’d make love
From this world
Until the sun rose in the next
I never questioned

She was flexible
Voluptuous
An ass that herded men like sheep
You’d think she was famous
A real contribution to
American culture
By the press and cameras
Centered behind her

Her face symmetrical
Underwear unstained
Never felt the itch or urge
To rub her ass against
The floor like a dog

On the night of our leashing
I bit at her lingerie
rabid
Chewing on the seam
Tearing it in two

Behind those flesh curtains
On the small of her back
Was a series of double A batteries.