how to fix your tortured organs:
writhe in bed first,
for 2-3 hours, then
eat and drink until you
throw up everything.

that's the best part.
the body ceases shaking violently
and you can sleep without
writhing.
when you wake, you can eat again.
finn and jake will take care of the rest.

there's a rather attractive mother
breastfeeding beside me.
I only looked once
or twice.

it's a fascinating thing.
he's 3 months, she said,
and when he latched on she
threw a blanket over
his head.

he's done after a minute,
I feel that's very quick.
now she's tapping his back
her bracelet
is rattling.

I feel like the baby.
I want the breast too.
but I sip on my
coffee and coke instead:
it's got more kick,
but it won't give me
an *******.

I looked over at this guy
on the bus next to me
crying into his backpack.

you learn pretty early on
in life, that it's wrong
to tell someone you
really dig, and would like
to ****, that you love them.
especially if they are more
attractive than you are.
more especially if they
know it.

I looked over again and
he's trying so hard
to smile now.
'good on him for
trying,' we should say.
'good, **** it all
straight back up.'

I don't want to
look at that
and you sure as
hell don't want to
be seen.

**** stitch mitch
had six stitches in his ****.
he tried to choke the carrot
but it tore his **** to shreds.
he tried to stitch it up
but the dog got to it,
and buried his **** in the yard
with all the other bones.

**** stitch mitch
kicked his dog to death
and then he drove to the hospital.

now he does talks at catholic high schools.
preaching the danger
of monkey spanking,
chain yanking,
meat beating.

I love how we always seem to finish
each other's
                           iambic pentameter.

I do an awful job
of pretending you aren't
beautiful.

you creep in with alarming
frequency, and I don't know
why I try so hard to
stop you.

I would like to
be the world with
you, but i'm still
frightened, and I don't
know why I try so
hard to calm
myself.

it's easy to be,
i'm told.

we **** those people.
we tell them
'oh charlie...'
'this is awful.'
'so lame.'
'so cheesy.'

we patronise them.
we embarrass them.
we **** them.
unless
their poetry is rounded
at the edges.

smoothed over
thought over
edited
workshopped
touched up.

"we want to see
your best self"

**** that.

give me your first draft.
give me the spontaneous.
initial *****.
show me your edges.
show me your
******* guts.

the real artists
hide.
even they can see
we **** those people.