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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Debt looms over me, like a shadow with teeth,it’s long gnarly nails,tap my shoulders in tandem, peering into my soul, Awakening shrilly, Barrages of alarms, Wake up, wake up, You’ve got nothing to do, A protégé child, Burnt out, 5’2 meat sack, Beg, Beg, Beg,Apply, Apply, Apply, Luminescent pixels glow, Upon weeping, tired eyes, 27,…
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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,…
The Gonzo Wolf 