my father was a curator
and my mother sold guns
under their roof we made
art and war.

there's an art to a sort of despair
that does not care
so much

be still
it'll

cool pools of red
n fetch your trusty bones
it lets you bare something realer
no matter the shadows of then

yuh know
it won't ******* **** you
to have nothing to say sometimes
except a knowing look or glance

blackbird eyes me up from its wire
sez im aright
sez i can fly higher
sez there's no period at the end
only a halfhearted comma

but i dunno what for

blackbird hops over
makes room for another
makes the saddest caw you ever did hear
then dashes off to lick the sky clear
till eleven shades of bluewhite appear

but i dunno im not sure anymore

this is the part where i carve
one little hole in my thoughts
watch the me breathe its last breath
watch the i beady turn tor

Do I make you wince?
Was I a lost fawns salt lick?
Was I a never was, your life's whiskey limp?
I guess I never took your hint
I guess you thought I could take the hit
Since that's been that conversations been zip
I can't say I was always innocent
But let's hope its a two way lapse of conscience

"oh, he's horribly depressed,"
she said with a smile.

nobody poets anymore

because to poet
is

to make it strange again

admit it - if you stare long enough

your reflection in the mirror tickles
the ribs of 1-to-1

turns a laugh into a cry
a real hard good cry
washing the world of wry

to poet is
to show

the sheer

terror

that is
alive

it's not outside
it writhes
under the molecule

it tumbles the tumult

dear you
your tools will not will forever

the unfisted wisp now blurred
beneath word is curtains
for your House of Horror Maintained

it beats like a busybody
muscling and torquing just below the breastbone

of your
you

the i is not it anymore

it is
othering
peeking behind
the beat-up chair of your so-called

real

there's wires behind there

they lead some
where