rip my hair and skin scalp me down to my river mind, innards of rot and process
take your hollow **** of words bury them in my very own valley of salt and waste
let's say, "words are words," with purpose and shallow bravery
they mean this or that and that is that of course!
this is this and the other thing what a lovely ring
sure to rhyme break the lines here and there
a bold poet with a neautered tongue and pen a cold box, where chaotic sloppy life should tumble forth with joyful hot moans, explosions of spit fury finger breaking body snatching war hunger defeat suffocating three ton wool blanket thrown over our mouthes stifling the bitter gut gargling screams of drone death baby mother buried way down under by the son father stalking blind with tears and rage and poverty skin not black but brown, religious garb for the crown hypocrisy will be sure to follow him about
Yet, here we are, a small empty hall, short not grand Yet, even here an echo back of our dim shallow fancies words that skip on the surface of meaning and power
mothers grieve shouting at the earth, holding their ******* to the moon, while fathers eat the dry bleached sand we've left behind in valleys of salt and waste