Poem: Writer at the End

Personified like a simile, for instance as an example

of some drunken reveries, lay bare the facts

pimpled and phosphorescent, amplified bass tones

burst a farting reality, unimpressive as hell

on a sinking ferry, spanish con men play baccarat

with millionaires, or whatever

the case may be, language is naught but squeaking

motorcycle mice plunging off a cliff on purpose.

 

So if poetry is poisonous, panacea for an unblink sky

masking truth numberlessly, rise up to the flood

stinking of sulfur pots, strangle the clown

booked for birthday parties, combat it with shit

in its eye, bubonic juices pour like tears

tearing down the blue yonder, as rats roll

poop into tiny balls, rhymes are the song

making slavery seem suitable.

 

What we do to get by, in this chain gang game

to sing from the soul, progressively of course

listing liberal leanings, manifesto’s of a lush

theoretical society, shangri-la was a lie

striven for of course, as only should be

like a puppy treadmill, a cuteness kaleidoscope

being shoved fitfully into a furnace.

 

They sound like sprung tires, popping a hiss

as the oxygen exits, wavering not on flat fatigue

over untrue wheel wells, gasping at fuel

fire in the air, fear in a mother’s eyes

will turn us back, but not soon sorry

fella, await a baptizing inferno shut-eyed

leg-shackled and blindfolded, what doesn’t kill us

makes for a novel future so take notes.

Poem: Writer at the End

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s