this month comes after may

try to unbreak it with a vote
a sore throat feeling of shouting to long
try to find treasure under the x
truth and its divorce from the polling booth
politicians, statisticians and bullshit artists
some seem to know what the part is
what the art is, where the heart is
pumping the heart despite rigor mortis
do we think a vote will sort this?

burning flags and plastic bags full of election promises
or a hasty push for something else
trying to hide your monster self
trying to lie abut the hate you feel
for poor people, who have little appeal
your seething cartoon rage, your caricature face
your desire to put people in their place
you won’t disappear without a trace
but you’re not adding much to the human race

how does it feel to spend your life
pretending to be human while being a knife?
all of you is about cuts
as one door opens another shuts
punch the beggar in the guts
burn the witches and shame the sluts
tear down the edifice, no ifs or buts

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getting on the good foot

down town listening to james brown
trying to build the lyric out
and remember the way the fluid used to flow
i was “the machine”, ya know?
born under a sad sign
digging blues out of the imagined river
speaking in tongues, these bronchial lungs
this bullshit-itus you didn’t invite us
forced us to surrender; didn’t fight us

do i think of myself as old now?
as broken apart and sold now?
like parts of an estate? a human being in a state
a state of flux
being driven through by articulated trucks
not articulate fucks that have anything to say
is this how we play now? is this how we pay now?
stagnant, fermenting in the souring juices
sat here nursing imaginary bruises
the illusion sometimes confuses, blows the fuses
starts a war and breaks the truces
wondering about boundaries and iron foundries
and how loose loose is?

we want to emerge and make our own rules
we were failed by schools
and we’re saving ourselves and our kids
turning into the skids, placing new bids
developing new paths, and new maths
like a resting state gathering mass
as we pass through a double slot experiment
and our probability wave collapses thanks to some observer
pays to be a quick learner
early adopter; good earner
putting nothing on the back burner

the profit of the dirt in the mix

just because you walk the same corridor
tread the same floor
they make the mistake
and you have to break
eye contact, because their lens is cracked
and this isn’t their music
they hear it and they confuse it

you’ll listen, but they squawk
impersonating talk
a radio that’ll walk
as your bass buzzes through it
they tried to squash it, you grew it

blank verse for a blank curse
a revised god, with quill wings
no room here for ill things
here in this sunshine
an aquarius, an undine
polishing the won shine
you have to crawl back to stand up
and remember your the mountain they’re trying to move
building a mountain of sound up out of the groove
pitching it high
a singular voice
they think you have a choice
to be emotive and expressive
while they’re tutting and being repressive
you’re strutting and climbing
cutting and rhyming
with exquisite timing
you barely have to think
and no longer have to drug and drink to do it
tune that head in
and pull that thread in
stitched
and switched
and glitched if you need it
prophet of the dirt in the mix
fixed to never need a fix

you dropped something

i ate the myth
and dropped a hot story
of broken birds wings and eggs

fingers down the crease of spine
to fold the mundane line
to envelope the lies
contain the lion

pine needles in the paw
telling kinda whether
half a dislocation from wherever
there are are reaches teacher’s seek to sever
barreling in behind the itchy trigger

the way we build these lies and call them truths
fool them into fueling a war we dress as truce
the root word marching the route to the hear of troops
has the unprecedented president turning puce
and somewhere all the minions tend the sluice
a shower of shit and trammelled wit and eternal youth

not much bite in a broken rotten tooth

the tiny gears of this

i am in the tiny gears of this
broken down into a response
a tongue cut to fit a groove

i don’t want to be this bird
fallen from a roost
become a broken wing
little more than a clockwork song

this pattern repeats
turns circles through the motion
and returns from where it came
to erase all sense of change
and days when i dress like this feel strange

i work to build these shells
these vehicles for my thoughts
and though they sometimes clank along
who do i need to tell me i’m wrong?
to tell me i have built a house of cards
the broken mirror; the difficult shards

the indirect direct
is a strange direction to navigate
why don’t you just work to state
an argument against what seems to aggravate?
because sometimes you want to be considered
keep the basilisk gaze lidded
and step away as the calmer minds have bidden

all return barred

and the many things i say
and the way they play
transplant the littoral for the literal
and smash it hard
all return barred
because i know something you know not
embody something you forgot

the dominion of opinion
and the championing of facts
assumption is a blunting act
designed to pinion
and silence
with a sharp immediate violence
dressed in apparent reason and reasonable
but bringing something more insidious to the table

let me talk at you
squash you flat
dress you in emotions you never had
and limit your ability to ever come back
because i will question your reason in my attack

boundcurve

bound tight child
the limited orbit
the curtailed reach
this is something we teach

i recall a hand outstretched
out past the arc
of apex downcurve into gravity
and the idea it was self-contained

i embody the halt
i am the strung line of fault
i am the weight, bobbing
i am the ornate fly, the marker

it gets darker
and pulled down
we forget the flight
masked in icarus aspect
candles made from the wax
used to seal compacts
this we agree to
this doom we flee to
think of as escape
when all it is is surrender