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Malcolm McGill May 2013
this is why i'm not getting married
**** me
bury me with a teddy bear
it would be considered too hot for
more friction, the kind that doesn't result in
smelly sheets, obviously not here, to them.
**** me
bury me with earplugs but put them in after
I decide to leave
tell most of the women whom I would've loved if they'd let me
that I love them, if you're stumped I'll write a list:
Grace
Caitlin
Courtney
Aubrey
Kate
Malena
**** me
bury me with stardust so I can fit in wherever I'm going
Malcolm McGill May 2013
What the hell are you saying nowadays?
Running off the children,
Tainting the allure with excessive fog induced effects.

Why should they want to hear you if they
don't know what you're saying?
Take a moment, wash your lens
with pristine sheen--clear the speakers.

The whole point is to get them to see
not to beguile them into
your maddening twisted sickness!

For the world's sake brothers
For all of your precious ways sisters
Speak to the wind so that it may carry who you are!
Malcolm McGill May 2013
my father Spoke to me
quite plainly Today

about how my mother was Concerned
with my reclusive manner

he said that she was afraid
I was Suicidal.

Not entirely true
I'm just Brainstorming.
Malcolm McGill May 2013
Twenty-even nostrils in stale air
& not one of them flares--
so little that I'd lost
the jewel of their significance--

carrying upon them, then,
much of it--
continuing in spite--
in a sense, meaningless.

for instance, a grand trine--
time reading, time writing,
time dismissing it as *******;

all frivolous & thus comes wisdom
from temerity or
thought plus action in callow degrees--
such Incoherence derives out of tumult.

A foreground.
Malcolm McGill May 2013
Four uneven walls make their own doorway to heaven
because the gates are resolute in steadfastness and I'm becoming impatient.
Malcolm McGill May 2013
No woman
loved
a penniless prince
is the title of our children's
child's book
because the truth should be told
before a smoking barrel
sings the eulogy of
a rejected Romeo.
Malcolm McGill May 2013
Not a poem goes by
that strikes me violent with life
as if the author murdered to
enchant each word
& each letter testifies against him
& his mother cries in newly purchased fabric--
she instinctively wore
no make up--
& his guardian angel shields its eyes, pureness tainted,
obligated on strict orders to stick around--
wings wet in the rainfall.
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