One way or another, the streets would be paved with gold.
It was a matter of time, sure. But more importantly,
it was a matter who the **** would help a town like this.
Shitsville, New Jersey: a faecal suburb.
Years of dead and still rotting potential
with an ugly face,
the eyes of a hawk and a sense
of remorse an executioner would be proud of.
The day I see a kid sleeping as sound as they should,
I'll drop to my knees, pull my resentful fist
out of God's *** and
kiss it for forgiveness.
But the streets are ****** now.
And the janitors have drugs and hookers,
not mops and brooms.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
One way or another, the streets would be paved with gold.
It was a matter of time, sure. But more importantly,
it was a matter who the **** would help a town like this.
Shitsville, New Jersey: a faecal suburb.
Years of dead and still rotting potential
with an ugly face,
the eyes of a hawk and a sense
of remorse an executioner would be proud of.
The day I see a kid sleeping as sound as they should,
I'll drop to my knees, pull my resentful fist
out of God's *** and
kiss it for forgiveness.
But the streets are ****** now.
And the janitors have drugs and hookers,
not mops and brooms.
The opening sequence of a collection of surreal and dark poems, questioning the nature of existence.
Request permission to use this poem