The advertisements tell me
to make a website.
From there, I can sell myself.
My bad habits and poetry,
my every night, stop-gap routine,
as if I am tired of chasing women
and am looking to get clean.

Place a filter
over every image I’ve seen,
place a void between myself
and reality.
To cut out the ugly spaces;
the maladjusted rock and dust,
the invasive thought

that I could end all uncertainty
by taking the plunge,
knocking back a few shots
before jumping into the canyon
and forsaking my circle-****
panoramic snapshot
for a chance of real feeling
the lawn mower forgot.

Another glass of Hong Thong
and Pepsi, another cigarette burn
as I scream *******
at the top of my lungs.
2.a.m in the morning-
all the girls have gone home,
so I ******* over yesterdays:
my ex-girlfriend in her bikini shot,
the high school girl I never laid-
but imagination was enough.

Stay up until the ashtray is full,
until each bottle is empty.
Until I run out of interesting
things to say
and finally begin writing poetry.
The crickets sing their curtain call song,
the blackness of night
as I black-out my lungs.

Wait for the paltry feast,
for the ***-shot girls,
for the dying embers
of a wonderful world,
where we smoke trees of green,
red blood and liquid too,
of fermented grape;
forget all of yesterday
and all of tomorrow too.

I see skies of blue,
I see clouds of white,
I see iridescent plumes
of neo-liberal,
comb-over groomed, Eton schooled dog-*****.
I see colours of the rainbow
that have all turned to grey,
too scared to offend anyone,
to say what we want to say.

I see enemies shaking hands,
saying “how do you do?”
I know that they’re really saying
“I ******* hate you,
I didn’t come to argue,
I didn’t come for the truth,
I came for my fifteen minutes of fame
for the twelve million hits;
for the five million views.”

They tell me to make a website
to sell myself.
For each time I stood
in the moments I fell.
To chronicle the crawl
of each cancer-drawn progression,
of each failed urban sprawl;
for each whiskey-drawn confession.

For each moment I stood tall
through the instances I felt small.
They told me there was a market
for each lazy, drunken drawl.

They told me to sell myself
as a failing beacon of mental health,
as a mass of demons,
all bite and no bark,
only to come alive
after blood-shed;
after dark.