Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Anarchist Come Poems

This evening I drove about Branson
marveling at the destruction wrought,
at the shyster bankruptcy
upon the pavement I once commanded
from atop a Santa Cruz skateboard deck,
when we smelled vagina upon our fingers
and marveled at the ocean before us,
an ocean of carrying these dreams of possible dreams,
that now when I smell vagina upon my fingers
I am ashamed
and feel I've left some part of myself inside of her,
something drowned in that ocean
now abyss
now brimming
swimming sharks,
and I a shark among sharks,
monster upon men,
seeing schoolmates grin from realtor billboards
wanting to scream at them that they peddle only blood
but not the blood that I crave and thusly seek
but a blood sterile and devoid of the immortality
I deserve.


"Mean-Fingered Cops"

mean-fingered cops
laws made by those who plan to break them
assert their kinghood
while I need no king
while I am my own king
death to the kings
and the mean-fingered cops
a burning I crave
a burning and a subsequent raving
a raving I crave
long into endless nights
preluding endless days
which do not prepare
for night nor war
but do our war in stock of paper
and dance
in string and in song
in dreams of dead priests
and effigies stuffed
with legalese
a day that will not turn to night
and yinyang
a night that serves day
a changing lady
our lady
of the sun which never rises
but to which we turn
and carve poems from pain
and pleasure from alone
to know that as we die
in this night, our night
the someday sun
will illumine our dances and poems
our sculptures and songs
scriptures lectures all waiting
waiting for your day,
your someday sun,
we do this in silence
not for ourselves
but knowing that as we die
and someday there will be no I
so someday all cops will die
all presidents will die
all lawyers and priests
and money-changers and warmongers
all pigs will be slaughtered
by the marching night of time
and this time is why I carve and carve
sometimes from bits of my own skeleton
and with ink of my own bile
that these poems will remain
and be read and heard
in a day without cops,
saved as an historical record
of the pain
in a night with cops.
kill em all


I write
anarchist come poetry
obsessed with my cock
and terrified to use it

gunshots echo Kirbyville night
but the dogs have stopped barking

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