A clockwork night
Me and the gang out for the old drunkin howl,
The glory of violence oh brothers,
oh bliss.
The beautiful swell of bones breaking on cement
With idle hands the quiver comes quick.
What is a man to do when he craves the ultraviolance.
When the viddy no longer gives such desires with stark clarity.
The old vino runs red, true dear brothers,
but the reddest river streams hot from flesh.
The glory of stripping for the old in out,
then ripping above the screams,
Hear the music,
like the strings above the violin swell.
Sweet Ludwig knows the potency.
The fun my brothers, the thrill
On a night like this, oh bliss
Gitty we walk the edge.

A take on violence

The exiling waves of life
Battered a Syrian child
Swept ashore. We scrolled.
We shrugged this violence.

Eyes glued to a simulacrum of love
Expecting the controlled dominance
Of a filthy rich fictional character
We said: “It’s vanilla.”

Violence as an idea is sweetened
You gulp down the pill
But violence as a means is condemned
You still gulp down the pill.

March 6, 2018
Lyon 1 University

Scabs crusting;
Feet wrinkle
with an unrelenting
wetness
in cold socks.

The soldier walks
reaching the point
of contact,
a swift interlude
of gorilla combat.

After the gun fight
he collects
small bullet casings.

Then when silence
finally comes at night
he takes them out,
rolling them
through and around
his fingers.

Various
colored casings
of memories chasing
each potential
point of pain;
He imagines
the cycle of sorrow
that each projectile
might have injected
into this world.

Then the soldier
buries the bullet casings
and
finally, leaves the battlefield.

When will it be enough for you?
Are you deaf?
Don’t act like you never heard them crying.
Stop covering your eyes.
Look at what’s happening to them.
To me.
To us.
You hold them and cradle them, your precious treasures.
Your sacred amendment.
You keep them in your safe.
“Don’t worry no one can take you away from me.”
And send your children to school

The darkness behind our eyes
Malice within our souls
The rebellion our menace
The prison we locked ourselves in
A cage we built to trap our wild hearts
Treading the fine line between
Normalcy and psychopathy
Vengeance, violence and brutality
All that we've masked in our grace
Hiding beneath our placid demeanor
Gentle breaths tender caresses
Soft lips whispering sweet nothings
Our words carefully scripted
Depicting a picture of purity and perfection
False sincerity reaching out to others
Only to burn all that we lay our hands upon
Malingering through days
Sugar laced actions and innocent smiles
Life is but a masquerade
As we dance or days away

nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.

i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****.
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.

we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.

i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.

You said you would track me down, hunt me
Like a prey. Even strangle him at the altar
So you could keep me as your princess.
I said I would get blood on my hands, defy gravity
just to touch your face. Even use my beauty
to ******, So I could be your trophy.

"She is mad. She is poison and a wreck." My heart
was the scene of a car crash, smiling
Through burning petrol and licking off the sweat
Lipsticks on check, girl dressed up her sophistication
to the nines, eyes vacant, seducing men.

"You are nothing but a cute kitty cat."
You pricked all my thorns and scooped me up
like a baby, arms sure and powerful, eyes on me
Heart pouring out, love drowning me.
Suffocating me in a tub of something called love

You undressed me, high heels, red dress, black lace.
Luscious wanton flesh willing under your palm. You
whispered love as you made love, you marked my soul
the way you marked my body as your territory.
You found the missing piece and made me shiver as you
Made me whole again.  

Be my Harley, I will tell you all the jokes a joker can.
Be my Bonnie, I will take aim and rob your heart like Clyde
"He is a ******, and she is mad"
You took my hand, kissed me hard and bit the vows on my neck.
"For better or worse?"
"Till death do us part"

It is not as poignant
as an abused animal,

Or powerful as
a crying child,

Not as memorable
as a warzone,

Not a battlefield
of brain damage
from repeated blows,

I am not a hero
and I am to old
to be a victim
because the expiration date
was a long time ago,

So when people
talk about their trauma
I do not expose
those old wounds

Because,
no one really listened
when I told them the truth,

So I take my shovel
and I bury old scars
dig as deep as I can
until I can see
the stars
on the otherside