your poetry is the
timid surgeon's
blade

your brainwashed disfigured filth
posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled
over horse ****

parasitic eager beavers
rattling off hollow sanitary words
from suburban armchairs

when you speak of passion...
I want the ivory joy
of licking teeth in black
cold nights of February
grabbing fistfuls of flesh
and desire

not your stiff ******* advertisement,
marketing zombie climaxes and red roses
of compulsion

when you speak of loss...
I want the acrid smell of burnt
hair, a scene of cinder and ashes,
a house of dreams smoked
by the arsons of addiction
and stupidity

not your camouflaged metaphors
of two dollar sunrises and legislated
loneliness, echoing off the empty walls
of narcissism

when you speak of hate...
I want cold bacon grease and blood
stuck to my tongue and dripping from
my mouth, to become a carnivore of ******
and liberated violence

not your confused assault
of cheap mouthwashed words
spat in basins of shallow
*******

ah, **** it,
write what you will
but give more
poetry should

Dear Mia,

I don’t know where I’d be without you. Perhaps a thousand more scars would line my thighs and decorate my arms. You gave me something to distract myself with when I thought a blade was the only way to punish myself.

Mia, oh how you came to me at dinner every night like a reliable friend. Reminding me to take sips between bites and chew my food to oblivion. Instructing me like a caring guide on all the right positions to make me sick faster and get everything out. You’d make sure I mouthwashed every night and knew I slept better with the ache of an empty stomach.

But you also left my knuckles raw from the scraping of my teeth. And when I rid of my stomachs contents the headaches I’d get were immensely painful. My heartbeat so fast I couldn’t move for fear of fainting. Constantly checking my breath for halitosis and the fear of eating in public. My family should hire me instead of a plumber having to clean out drains so often when I felt more deserving than the porcelain toilet bowl.

You took a lot out of me Mia. You’re absolutely no good for the dreams my heart holds anymore. And although your shadow will always flicker during meals, I won’t let you be a solid spirit in my life.

-Goodbye✌
P. S. Tell Ana she’s next

There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two tweakers, a rat, and a cat in a hat
Have all built their nests in my beard."

There was an Old Man of Connecticut,
Who possessed an innate sense of etiquette;
He'd lay down the fork to the left of the spork,
That mannerly man of Connecticut.

There was an Old Man from Earth's center,
Who left it and couldn't reenter;
He crawled out a hole like a man who's a mole,
And lost his way back to the center.

There was an Old Person of Skye,
Who spent his days wondering, "Why?"
When they asked, "What's the word?" he replied, "Haven't heard,"
That discouraged Old Person of Skye.

There was an Old Person of Sligo,
Whose motto was "You go and I go."
He went here and there building castles in air,
That imaginative Person of Sligo.

There was a Young Person of Ghana,
Who grew Ghana's best marijuana;
He grew it, enjoyed it, and was super annoyed it
Was very illegal in Ghana.

There was an Old Person of Perth,
Who buried his gold in the Earth
And then plum forgot whereat was the spot,
That forgetful Old Person of Perth.

There was a Young Man of the South,
Who mouthwashed with whiskey his mouth;
He spoke with a drawl, saying yes'm and y'all,
That drawling Young Man of the South.

There was a Young Person of Boston,
Who wandered around and got lost in
The Chinatown section with a raging *******
That poked out an eyeball in Boston.

How pleasant to read Mr. Lear,
Who surely was scroobious and queer;
Old Foss was his cat in a runcible hat,
And he couldn't abide ginger beer.