Men hunting Men
Desire mixed in their molotav cocktails
a righteous dissatisfaction on each side
a twinkling dusk falling behind ruby hillsides
limbs and religions sway in the tide
Of the rupturing world
each wondering how will we
make it

& why



night undresses
her ******* are perfect
A slow dance towards the edge
A serenade of gravity dislodging itself
All the little creatures in the play
love money beauty grenades








survival of the most depraved
ah
here comes another day

Sometimes
I wonder what you’d say
Would you walk away
and let me follow in your wake
laughing about the feeling of your
rain that kisses the curves of your tan softened face the way I wish I could,
the very rain that seeps into the laugh lines of your eyes, the rain pools that cut outs of your smile
would you let me linger in the decadence of your sarcasm
would you let me sit next to you while you laugh
In that way you lazy way you do
when you
lay back against the wooden
bench
Or would you hold me close,
close enough to smell your aftershave
and let me see your broken nails
and torn calluses
close enough to feel your stubble on my cheek and feel your breath on my jaw
close enough to put my hands around your back and feel the scars that reside just out of my reach
Would you let me avoid telling
the truth to myself and shut me
up like a gull at night, so peaceful until it reaches the peak where night is no longer dark, and suddenly a cacophony of  screeching worse than the alarms on the traditional alarm clock
or would you let me fall
onto an open-ended, double edged
question
sharper than a thumbtack and twice as rusty
Do I even have the courage to tell
you?
Or am I a molotav cocktail
and waiting until smashed to
crash and burn
Would you even let me open my
metal mouth and let my tongue
carve waves into your soul and tear you up
so you feel half as bad as i do
alone.
Would you let me read your
texts?
and ask me why she was upset?
or would you even come near me
I open my mouth to tell you
“Hey! I need to say something!”
“Yeah?”
“Gimmie a hand?”
You said okay.
that wasnt what I wanted to ask
but
You said okay
and smiled
like an empty glass of expired wine.

This isn’t a tale of snails and puppy dog tails
This isn’t my love opus
There will be no dandelions and daydreams

          This is poetry to fight to
          This is poetry to **** to
          This is poetry to **** to

     This is beauty
     This is art

It’s exhaust in your face
It’s fury after heartbreak
It’s bleeding and *** holes and mold
It’s the ache in your brain and the tugging at your soul
Maddening, hallucinogenic, tongue in and cheek and powerful

This is road rash and asphalt
This is for the punks who spit in your face
This is for thieves in the night
This is for the battered, shattered and abused
This is for those who can’t take anymore
This is for those still truckin along
This is for the addicts, ******* and opinionated
This is for the single fathers ****** over by baby mamas
This is for those who spit blood and get up off the canvas
This is for those crawling out of their skin
This is for those bursting at the seams
This is for those who pick scabs for fun
For those willing to fight and **** and feel

Those who steal at will, who shotgun beers at 8am
Those that fight bears with Bowie knives
Those that saddle burdens
This is for those too smart for their own **** good
This is for the unhinged
This is for those who walk the edge
This is for the devils
This is for the demons
This is for those who can’t put the genie back in the god ****** bottle
This is for those who wear their heart on their sleeve
This is for the ******
          For I am the ******
This is for the lunatics
This is for those with poor impulse control
The saddened and gladdened, miserable and merciful
The maniacal narcissists with delusions of grandeur
The glass half full types, swilling *****
The junkies. The ******.
This Rottweilers stuck in pint sized packages
The nonsensical. The absurd. The unbecoming.
The shivs and the shanks.
The me’s, myselves and the I’s.
The notorious. The nefarious.
The sinners and saints.
The lovers. The lost. The last of their kind.
The ones who broke the mold.
The outlaws and rabble-rousers.
The coke heads and kingpins.
The ones who live in no man’s land.
The beautiful. The scarred.
The demented and downtrodden.
The ones who give up Sunday morning ******* to put pen to paper.
The attention ******.
The anti-social lovers of humanity.
The Molotav cocktails.
The ticking time bombs
The powder kegs and the poets.
This is for those who can’t get enough
And for those who can’t stay away.
This is what poetry is.