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.

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"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

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I write

anarchist come poetry

obsessed with my cock

and terrified to use it

gunshots echo Kirbyville night

but the dogs have stopped barking