Poem: Struggle

Make me an offer I can’t refuse and I’ll take it

up the ass, whatever you want, kaleidoscope possibilities

fracturing inscrutably, like abstract pointillism

which is just dots, searching for each one’s other

exit route, in the blood of blades or the bottle of pills

that would be fun in moderation, goofy like a loony

tune playing a ukelele, drinking whiskey from the bottle

until down to the flag, until I am empty of everything

but consciousness pervades, telling me that I’m dead

already inside, missing the harm of joy

burn like lye in the vein, but just a side step

out the window, resting in a coffin finally.


Slapping in the face, me with an ice cold shivering

hand of a god, scraping the air with frost

collecting in a vat, the lies of the world

they told me in school, though they still lie

still breathing, flowing life in and out

of stories that are touching, not enough can be

true, but their inspiration informs of the coming

in a blizzard of genius, we know we can never relent

the pursuit of joy, whether or not ever it comes

treasure chest inbound, on the other side

look into the mirror, be proud of yourself.

Poem: Struggle

Poem: Bro’s

More like pus than a river, at a steady bearing

beating two knots, bopping paddle bills on beat

with drunk chicks by the LCD, gridding ducklings,

cracking comrades on the back or, over the head

with a balloon bat, tickle tack, cuddles all round

filled with bile, for friends are all false

around a sun circuit, in the dark time, on the cold side.


The sky is knives out of nowhere, I’m told is falling

but who knows?  Rudimence is not a word,

I get it but I’m bloodying the ground with my fists

because I’m not with your music, the attune anymore,

to the kids, but gridding isn’t a word, either, asshole.


See the how you get?  Filling space like gas

masks, blustering bullshit, flying and sticking

like wet leaves, so my friend is dead, clearly.


Fuck you, skip class and die in a ditch, prick.


Thus is just the way, youth reacts to change

with falling, shards of the past, shearing folks halfway

down the middle, cleaving past from future,

and eyes are all dry, because this is just the way.

Poem: Bro’s