they’re just
poems, not reasons
reasonable
doubt plagues us like a lost cause
misfiring
engines, the pop pop of a gunshot/ backfire, everybody ducks
broken
bottles cracked over broken heads, broken words shooting blanks into blank cadavers,
hurricanes, wait where is this going, I got my thumb in the wind
the
hitchhiker’s blank stare a postmortem on the selfishness of the bland, bigoted
status quo
drooling in
their autumn sweaters, yellow leaves dying at their feet
big feet the
size of The Colossus of Rhodes and when I’m done being exhausted I promise to
beat you over the kaleidoscope-head for reminding me I’m only human
wrapped in
stardust, petulant and self-important as fuck.
A star artist
that knew it was all bullshit and his shit smelled as rank as everyone else’s
union suit,
the stains were unbearable, but I guess things happen that way
i’m rotting
from the inside out, we’re all rotting from the inside out, watch me rot
like a
bologna sandwich jesus kept in the crypt before he rolled his cloud away
he played the
guitar like a house may land on him, at any second, if only he’d stop pacing
back and forth like an expectant flower giving birth to an old, evil curmudgeon
in a drool
bib with a ring on his finger the size of the other side of ohio where they
still teach the crucifixion as a bed time story to failing future capitalists
they are just
songs or chamber music for the inflexible, those incapable of bending even when
the golden rule is shoved up their stinky assholes and sunshine has taken a
holiday
there are no
sick days here, we drag ourselves green, ragged waiting on our pulse to stop
queen jane
sits on her tuffet abandoning all hope and aspiring to be all she can never
possibly be
which with
her imagination may only be a needle in the camels eye
lasting
impressions last only as long as they’re willing to succumb to the daily grind
of meandering mediocrity and ass-cancer-keeping-up-with-the-Joneses-politicking
god, it’s
always the ass cancer, ain’t it a bitch. but if it ain’t the ass it’s still the
cancer
jim shepard
was not a shepherd, prophet or salesman, he was another exterminator eaten by
big fucking bugs
lost my
determination, lost my will to thrill, everything went polka dotted, the fire
within lost its concentration. it exploded, turned into poems and we know by
now
they are just
poems not reasons
reasonable
doubt tore into me like an anti-Atticus-Finch who left his Gentleman's Agreement in his other slacks or was it chino’s, a man
has to look good as he wallows deeper into some bland cream colored despair.
blind love,
blind luck, blind suffering misfires and blinds an audience of all seeing miscreants
Jason Baldinger/Charles Cicirella
12/11/18
No comments:
Post a Comment