i'm tired of textures written in fire,
in how your dreamquest in poetry
is your only vision, is your call
to erupt and sing siren songs
of cracked knuckles and burnt flesh
wondering where an oasis
may be found.
tell me about your day instead,
how your dog refused to eat the scraps
you left for it, how your boss
is a total jerkface
who should never have climbed the ranks
but that's the way of most management,
don't you think?
total cocksuckers.
the next paycheck is all i think of.
the next day is rain and sometimes
the bleached forgiveness of sun,
of holidays spent in my head in venice,
plying the canals in overpriced gondolas,
in books written and sold for the price
of a chocolate bar.
i'm tired of fantasies. i'm tired of the spin
of this planet churning out more soldiers,
more children screaming for rice,
more angst and poverty and disillusion
and bomb-strapped teenagers
wishing for virgins
in heaven.
total cocksuckers.
|
Submission Name: blow
