Poetry
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Porch Swing Poetry at your service.
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It’s poetry I write in my porch swing. That’s all.
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Sirens & gunfire Owners and empires The city exhales chaos And that mask hasn’t fit since the last apocalypse Microscopic Katrina’s rot still Arsonist tendencies veil the infrastructure’s missteps Poor all looks alike That’s what they want to say; say it, cowards Trust funds and white trash; blood blind taste-tests failed Undercover; under covers Broke…
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I like to microdose death,many hours a day,I slow my breath,and in my bed I lay,I close my weeping eyes,darkness encloses me,it’s demise without goodbye, the reaper still holds the key,I feel him,he is polishing his scythe, he’s muttering, “grim, grim, grim,” he is awaiting his tithe,maybe I’ll die soon,maybe it’ll be later,I’m wrapping in…
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I found this poem tucked away in a random folder, as well as some stuff I don’t even remember writing! I remember this, though. I moved into an office, hoping GWP would turn into something I no longer have the desire or energy for. It was in a high-rise in downtown Dallas, and be damned…
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…since I’ve waxed-poetic from the porch swing. An eventful weekend, to be sure. The kind that will get mentioned at my funeral. I woke of my own accord. Four then five then six then fuck it all. Sirens wailed their ballads letting me know I’s home; indeed. All plans born of lunacy; squashed, swept below,…
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You may have read something similar to this over the years by poet Mary Stevenson, but, as far as I know, it’s a public beach. One night I dreamed I was rolling along the beach with Jeffrey.Many sexual assaults from my life flashed across the sky. Or maybe it was porn. I’m not sure; there…
The Gonzo Wolf 