i'm not your friend, i'll never be one,
playing dumb by using the psychiatric terminology
of word salad thinking it isn't degrading will
only give you the feeling your father proved adequate
at: feeling bricks, and mortar... play me the violin
now.

i'm still 100 poles digging
up a swimming pool
of the affairs of rich richards,
i might have expatriated
but in number i'm just
an immigrant, easy joke
of the irish deeming sensibility,
comrade clarkson and the sunday
writers... they really do make
the other days spare...
drive six days a week, write
once upon a time,
i wish i had the full extent of
rage that fictional writers encompass,
but i'm writing poetry, so i'm not allowed
the excesses of prose,
i'm supposed to drown the remainder rage
in the heart and turn it into love of
some sort, some kind of assortment
that will be unable to migrate...
i sometimes wish i was abandoned
with my grandparents than fulfil
the wish my father had to have a father,
at least i wouldn't be despised or abhorred
or joked at... because a would be murderer
walked free... and i was called a murderer
for committing a ****** known as suicide
without reprisals of justice...
now constantly engaged in suicide
for no wish of life... and still *the joke
in ireland... eerie land by most count
of the bended knee on stone dribbled into
confession at the zenith of golgotha...
well, i could be mistaken for a colonist,
an anti-colonial punch-bag...
and so the world took form as that.