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 Jan 2014 Scott Howard
Katryna
Draw like you want to beat the **** out of God for limiting the colour spectrum to something finite.

Write like the ******* paper is on fire and your pen is kerosene and it’s burning and you’re screaming but it feels so ******* good.

Realize you’re a ******* *****.

Realize everyone’s a ***** and the sun is only going to explode and the world is only going to burn and we’re all going to die in fire, but it’s only going to hurt for an instant.

But you love the pain, that’s why you beg him to paint you black and blue and make you bleed so you can see how disgusting you really are.

Remember that god has abandoned us all and Jesus died for your masochistic tendencies.

So, crucify me on your parent’s bed and **** me like repenting can save us.

**** me like you want to save us.

But what’s salvation to bruised knees and praying to the tune of incoherent screams and begging and pleading and Yes Sir and Thank You Sir and an ****** so hard your body joins your head in the clouds.

Learn languages and **** his **** in all of them.

Turn *** into art the way he turns you into his masterpiece.

Live like your biggest debate is whether or not to drink a pint of beer, or a pint of blood – and choose the blood every time.

**** yourself every second of every ******* day and remember that you’re alive and you’re not so well and never look your grave in the eyes until he tells you to.

Scrapbook every bullet hole you've kissed, keep mason jars for the dirt he rubbed your face in, plant a cigarette **** for good luck, always ask permission, remember you’re disgusting, remember you’re dying, remember you’re alive, remember love, remember passion, remember anger, remember this.
I
have
written
one
hundred
twenty-
seven
poems
about
you.
Please
­let
me
go.
 Jan 2014 Scott Howard
A
"Girls shouldn't smoke"
I'm sorry sir, say that again?
Tell that to the 15 year old hispanic girl who sold her virtue under the guidance of the traffic lights to pay off her mother's cancer bills.
Tell that to the wife of a man who
beat
beat
beats her, because some nights she refuses to kneel at his supposed genital altar and confess her sins.
Tell that to the girl who has spent 6 months carving her home address into her forearms,  hoping that her Mum would smell the rust and come and rescue her.
Tell that to the girl who was stolenshackleddruggedsold under the consent of her father who used her body as a paycheck to settle his blackjack debt.
To the lonely girl. The ugly girl. The fat girl. The anorexic girl.  The bulimic girl.  The girl.
"Girls shouldn't smoke."
Tell that to the women who find their prayers in the daily grace that is, nicotine.
Just like men do.
 Dec 2013 Scott Howard
Ugo
The blood of dinosaurs
pump through the soil
serving as cold platter
for the lit Norwegian cigarette  

The war of music pump paragraphs of hope
through the ear of youths
burning lips in pursuit of happiness.

In search of naked pictures of God in our mirrors,
the internet spent our laws and threw our only hallelujah out the sea—
and Arachne smiled, knowing she’s now the Womb—
and all men come in the belly of eternity in order to be.
In a place of disrepair
                                   I found a brick                                                            ­                                                                     and then another brick
                           Just too many bricks too care...
Many thousand glittering motes
Crowd forward greedily together
In trembling circles.
Extravagantly carousing away
For a whole hour rapidly vanishing,
They rave, delirious, a shrill whir,
Shivering with joy against death.
While kingdoms, sunk into ruin,
Whose thrones, heavy with gold, instantly scattered
Into night and legend, without leaving a trace,
Have never known so fierce a dancing.
A crane
Shading in the evening twilight
Trails its smokelike wings.
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