Turning screws
That twist with a croak
A hammer in square nails
Boots echo down the stone staircase
Tall machines made of brass
Perfectly greased gears twist against
Bright red tune of strings
Twist tunnels in the black of my mind
Underground trees

Billiard ***** tap in the next room
Where men hunt weak women
With long black teeth
Collars stained red blood
Go to sleep in my family name

Someone taps nails
In my coffin

I just want to meet poets.

The ones
in
the clubs
not
made for poetry.

The one's who
reside
in places
where
their thighs are places
for grinding.

The one's that push dudes off
without malice.

I want to meet the poets
at the bar,
taking in all their ears can handle,
because someday
they will
write it all down.

I want to meet the poets
in the middle of divorce,
becuase the pain of separation;
is a fissure of
love.

Poets in their cars
at five in the afternoon
with the windows open,
because carbon dioxide
builds in the system
and a greenhouse
of hope
may
be
feeding
unborn seeds.

I just want to meet poets.

Seated proudly on my throne
A self made king all shall know
Enslaved any who'd dare deny
Sentenced them all to die

In the mirror but somewhat scarce
Looks like me but he's been cursed
What the hell is happening?
What is this, my becoming?

Seated comfortably on throne
Righteousness all my own
And any fool who shall deny
Is a fool I'll sentence to die

In the mirror myself, yet demon
Tell me at once this double meaning?!
What has happened to my image?
To hell with this pilgrimage!

Held by chains all my own
I'm restrained forcibly to this throne
What is this travesty?
I was your ****** majesty!

This catastrophe
A messed up calamity
I'd had an epiphany
Only after the end of me

Shadow's fingers
making the contours of your
face breathe fire

When I'm not back home
in the city
where the bulls cry
in fumes,
**** goes awry.

The girl
that
I loved
once,
calls
twice.

And then a third time,
I pick up,
and it's war
from the first
breath.

D-Day on a tuesday night,
the troops storming the shore,
the bombs blazing
in the infrerno of night,
my ex calling me
talking about
compassion.

So what did I do?
really?

I just tried
to be
civil.

I tried to tell her that my heart
was in another place,
that it was bending
and finally
broken.

Compassion doesn't live here anymore,
because so many questions
about cheating with white girls,
the same kind that her irish-italian blood
resembled,
boiled down
to
self-hate.

I tried to tell her
that I was in love,
that I was over her,
that these arguments
were the mute points
of her politicism.

She couldn't sway me
with a thousand dollars
or a million.

I was in love
and it hurt to argue,
because I wasn't talking
to the one,
I wanted to.

I was ******* with heathers,
when I wanted to know more
about  flying eagles
and the depth of feminism.

I wanted to know how deep it reached
her heart,
and how.

So now,
I'm angry
that you called,
because it wasn't the number I wanted,
not the voice
so clear
and liquid
as
truth.

A place where
you can feel
safe in your own skin.
If all the under-dogs
got together
we'd still be a pack of little dogs.
But we'd be
the same size
as the
guys
that took us to the kennels
anyways.
Jail break,
let;s get our
freedom back.

Passion.
Love.
& everything else that makes a
goth
gag.

True love is something you'd die for.
Cuz
True love out lives life.

I want to be in love not lust.
Guess I better drink punch
& die.
Or I can have 7 marriages.
and die half way through my 8th.


So to who ever has some tropical punch,
This *****
be
thirsty.

Narcissists have fans.
Poets
have
passionate
friends.
Welcome to the Love Cult.
The Sun
that is the center
of Bandit's universe.
Space is cold
and dark and lonely.
But together,
we're going to make
a
bright
& beautiful world.

I never knew I was poor
Until one day I went to the store

Until one day I slammed your door
As you scream and throw beer bottles at me

You can walk a long way on this one quiet corner path
Where I got my first kiss and my first ****

Them **** blankenship boys never do there chores
Them boys steal and grow *** in the woods
They talk our name in the barber stop

Them **** mountains are haunted
Through and ******* through
With the ghosts of a thousand indinas
Pulling your hair

It was a hot summer
And your mom wasn't home

Ladies and gentlemen
Here's the big show
About the old drunk *******
The tanned dark farmer
And his son plow a row

Straight rows long and deep rows
Full of cool black earth
I put my hand to the plough
When I was thirteen
And my dad got sick
Then that summer he died

The preacher came
But we were all still asleep
Cold milk bottles brought in from the doorstep

Summer is long and hot  night a devious witche's brew
Somewhere up the holler
Stop askin so many questions boy!
I told you these ******* mountains are haunted