Synonymous with youth.
There’s piss and vinegar in your swagger,
So delighted you never ran for public office.
The black rain invaded our peace of mind.
There was turmoil cutting us into halves before we even got close to the Temple Mount.
God and gun both words have three letters and have caused way too much bloodshed.
You say guns and Gods don’t kill people. I call you on your bullshit as Scientology cuts off the blood to your brain and you give into old resentments disguised as fresh hatred.
Jesus suggested we sit down and talk. I refused to even look him in the swallows of his reworked face because I knew his past glories were more formative than anything I’ve so far accomplished in my Leave It To Beaver life.
You want to rescue me? You think you can do me some actualized good? You think you won’t be just another letdown as religiosity shakes me to my very core?
More fabricated prophets and wolves disguised as golden calves knock upon my door as I turn into one of the walking dead because it’s simpler than revisiting the 12 steps.
Poetry refuses to let me off the hook.
Either you write what you know or you don’t it’s that simple as you pump more of your photocopied words into the public discourse and are received as the next flavor of the month messiah.
I swallowed so many sour grapes I turned purple and reeked of a vineyard. The color purple did not look good on me so I did my best to hide in the anonymous ravings of another false, unrepentant wino.
So delighted when you called me on my cell phone and finally accepted me for who I am and stopped rejecting me for not reaching the expectations you laid out like Sunday clothes or a new and more restrictive skin.