Poetry Thread #3

[Original Poster]

I'll open up with the poem I wrote for my friend who committed suicide. SB that fascists. Expectations come from shadows and claw my flesh from bone and tell me with fear of disappointment tenderizing every flaccid hope. Am I so fixated on the end I can’t appreciate the passage there? Worrisome knots bubbling up to boiling gobs of poisonous doubt rising to my skull and spilling out--I don’t want it broken! I don’t want it broken! So I refuse to touch it. It's got me trapped inside my head because I can’t stand the loss of it or even a hint of a threat. I get glimpses through it sometimes but today I need surgery to remove the screaming little bitch nibbling on the back of my spine. I need canons to launch an assault and break every wall that separates me from all of you. I need a parachute to send me safely from the space station where I sit paralyzed watching the world I want break apart and be replaced by the one that is. My brain wants like sewage waste and I want to give up so bad sometimes I can’t stand it. But I’m still stuck in that paradox that if I can kill my expectations I can finally have them all. And I’m still stuck between fear and love, and god I wish I wasn’t because then you would have known how loved you were. But you never did because we all hid it. For one day let me escape the race to build evidence on facebook that I’m happy and prop up cardboard cut-out smiles faster than the world can take them down and then maybe you’d know you weren’t alone because I feel alone sometimes, too. But we’re such proud fucking shits we cover up our soft spots and bury our hearts in bottles until we can’t hear them begging for each other.

[Original Poster]

I’m growing a mustache that will curl like the toes of the girl I tie to train tracks. I’m building a float for the parade celebrating the completion of a thin plastic membrane to cover the natural blackness of creation that bleeds from the soul in the ground and this float will have treads pounding sizzling sharp spikes into the asphalt and this float will spray burning defiance into the audience to steal their twisted grins off and this float will spill kilos of candy along all sides to call the clueless heaps of hungry kids. I’m thinking of ways to form an identity that will destroy all of yours. I’m raping murder and stealing treason. I hunted wolves when I was raised by chickens. I mate with angels that give birth to demons with evil pride and drinking problems. I lick the bones of every talented artist I can collect, living life just like my cannibal ancestors did when they killed off the giants so they could feel big. I sit in a river with my head plunged firmly looking for a clue of Jesus and when I don’t find it I seek the Devil and trade a little more of my soul to falsify the feeling. I ambush Caravans heading West of Fame and circle round them until they settle down into a littered pilgrimage of trailer park towns. I’m eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and finding anyone who hasn’t so I can clothe them in my assumptions about life until they learn Science is separate from Poetry, the way to be happy is by collecting more stuff, we’re all going to live in space some day and people on TV never die. I let the Earth shatter too busy saving its misled creatures but curtains are closing for the play that hides the audience from their shadow of lies and blistering lackfuls of excuses for lives, and now every God we've loved has demanded human sacrifice. Dawn is coming to smash apocalyptic beams of truth on all the dark little cracks where we buried broken promises. Miracles are soothing the dead to waking but we’re grabbing shotguns to blow their heads off like we were taught in training. Genocide has been declared on the parasites that suck our identities into a vacuum of not enough. Laundry Day is here to purify the stains and colors from our clothes and shrink them down so they don’t fit anymore. Ladders are being sent to collect the poor souls drowning in possessions, astronauts suffocate in flying clay prisons, science is humping poetry in secret under the bleachers and the ambulance has been called for the last celebrity alive. The Yin is making the Yang erupt buckets of purple sweat and sounds spill out the wrinkles breaking beats before Punk Music Remixes as the two wage a thumb wrestling battle over which one gets to be the Fresh Prince of the Assholes. I’m the world’s first Hipster and I’m driving a scooter into the sunset, smoking bent and flattened cigarettes with Wes Anderson behind the camera and a bloodstain drying on my leather jacket from poking a hole in a thin piece of plastic and watching the innards spill out.