10 Feet of Hearing

Hi, whenever you get a chance outside the poisonous walls of the wretch.

I would like to explain the pain of the consequences you haven’t met yet,

Birthed from your inattention turned torment,

And your civility that’s grown dormant…

Let her explain the reasons for her filth to your gullible ears,

Screaming explanations off-key,

Her duplicity triumphant as your second X chromosome disappears,

She scoffs and I sneeze,

Because I’m allergic to fake hair and real weave,

I’m running a day care and she won’t leave…

Damaged be the ones who constantly put their wants over their needs,

If I could, I would hang her off from a 10 Storie building just so she can feel the breeze,

And then use both of my hands to nonchalantly scratch both of my knees…

These walls are fucking thin,

And if we were ever to talk in depth I wouldn’t know where to begin-

And the conversation would never end,

I would convict you of your sins,

And you’d be in a world of ungodly trouble as the Devil continues to smile,

All while-

She rests infirmly in your arms,

Waiting for the right time to do you do you harm,

You’re still falling for the wench and choking under her charm,

Every night…

When I’m 10 feet away through a thin wall trying to have a conversation with the one person that make me feel safe in the midst of all chaos,

Ya know what?, I don’t want to talk,

I want you to suffer for your inaction, inattention, inconsiderateness, inconsistency, and insolence,

All while you choke to death on your arrogance,

So I know where I would start in speech…at the ending.

Delon

She got into a minivan,

He drove off, like fast,

She looked at a million mini strands-

Of browned stained grass,

The outsiders stared into the van-

With dark tinted glass,

The little lady loosens laces-

Of her stained soccer shoes,

Ol’ Little lady making faces at-

Her trained boxer bruised,

She squeals with her tongue,

He slams on brakes,

Her body goes numb,

She jumps quick as she wakes,

Outside a dumpster on Delon,

She stands and her waist,

Drenched in dried white from what he’s done,

She searches around this place,

Screaming loudly with half lung…

I can feel the tension still stagnate in my legs,

I can still see the imprint of where the seat bit her head,

I can smell the pain on the top of her breath,

I call still feel vibrations as she dances near death,

I reach high into the sky parked beside the blue van,

Grabbing shards of myself to build a new man,

I stare at God for minutes on end,

He stares back at me casting consequence to sin.

The sirens are screaming the sirens are screaming,

The day has came down, the night now has meaning,

I turn to my right and see white red lights,

The cop sprung out of his vehicle and read me my rights,

I pray in silence in hope that God might,

Give me a reason to take my own life.

The Wolf

He’s going to try his old methods,

To obfuscate the throng of rural people in order to capitalize on their idiocy,

He’s present himself “holy than thou” to make them believe that they’re protected,

From the ones insidiously-

Supplying moxy to the wretched.

He’ll speak in riddles,

They’ll hang to his cloak,

The attendance will the triple,

The governed once believed it a joke,

His discourses are brittle-

As he forces his hearers to choke…

He’s a monster,

In warming mantles,

They invite his new blight that gives life to parasites,

Granting poison via tongues,

And confusion to the young,

Good peace forever none,

Speak now forever done,

Promise the damaged forever fun,

In lands of nights and never suns,

The poor-man’s intrigue,

Latching tightly to the folly,

Music to the ears,

And verve to the body.

Flame

He’s embarrassed she can’t leave the room silently,
He asks her where the fire is,
She says” in you”,
She’s kindles the burn by spitting gasoline on his chest,
She says he’s too hot to touch,
He says not yet,
She says “you need to chill”,
He’s says “I’m soaking wet”,
She yells “you gotta chill”
He says ‘I’ll try my best”,
The door slams and he grabs a fork,
He stabbed into-
Unroasted pork,
He risks for fun,
She spits for sport,
They crash and burn,
His coddled flame,
In the end…
He’s still to blame?

The Plow

I’ve already fathomed the desert there’s no reason to rethink, I’ve taught her how to use the tracker to plow the dirt because she kept complaining her hands hurt. She yelled “relationships are too much work!” And I silently watched her plow. The rattle of the tracker’s transmission scattered the desert pigeons feeding of the remnant of the rot and we’d sit and listen. The beaks would beat at minimal meat, fighting amongst their ranks on which nothing to keep, this would last for hours, I would stare for minutes, the struggle would lose its power, and then become folly, the birds respond oddly trying to make something from rot, my girl keeps plowing…in the same spot.

No Mar No To

He wouldn’t convince the time machine to take me back to her, I have only contempt for his refusal, and I would take his life,
With a spoon,
And a knife,
And eat the remains of a good mind, that of which kept me from her horrors, no feast, at least, I’d eat.
He talked to me about my tomorrow, and highlighted my recently dimmed yesterdays of discomfort and twisted harps, the discord she would further disorganize, and feed from the chaos that sanded my hopeless bones,
Much a feast, of gnashing teeth to a sullen beat,
Melodies of distress and undone promises she couldn’t keep,
It took her one-hundred thirty nine weeks,
To devour the whole corpse.
The time machine spoke to me, in a dream outspokenly it seemed…to have created a black hole which its gravity would pull and yank on my light-less soul into a future not yet.
I passed her pictures on the way, knocking over tables and frames,
Breaking glass and chains,
Tainting carpet with blood stains,
I no knowledge that the future would drag stiff, balling my black tank top with its grip,
Cutting my leg deep with the nightstand tip,
And insulting me the whole way,
Injures of my journey I’d thought never go away,
Enemies of my quest I’d thought to never sway,

I know lay in future’s arms,
Questioning why her heart beats so sporadically…

Indestructible

They call us indestructible, avoidant of the overt ideal of our mortality, a mortality that we share. They are a hypersensitive people, they can smell the blood coursing through our bulbous veins, they can see the throbbing skin on our chest incasing our straining hearts. They can see the fatigue in our legs as we end our days and enter our cars. These people are intelligent, they know when can be touched, they know we can bleed. Fixate over the pleasant fiction that there is a human being that exists that triumphs all forms of harm, our sentinel to knight us from what may intend to do us ill. These people are weak, these people are desperate, these people need to be saved. Their lives run in impending circles accomplishing the standardized, hour after hour. They rest at night, in their quadruple gated communities, with their forced smiles and perfectly crafted nuclear families. They wake, same breakfast, take their children to school, arrive at wonderful work at the same time, raise their computer chairs to the same height, and arrange their desks in the same manner as yesterday. These people do not think we are indestructible because of its logical significance. These people think we are indestructible because we are skewed, we are abstract, we do not standardize the chaotic and burden functionality with identical pieces to turn the proverbial money machine. We are different, therefore in their untrustworthy minds, indestructible. It’s not so bad being a superhero.