His Miranda Writes
by coke-line carl
Posted to Poetry on 2004-01-18 05:57:00
(this is the first poem i ever wrote)
cold winter running through my veins – stops at the heart – beats against my broken tenderness like a djembe being battered by stoned magicians – how they howl, how they sing my name synonymous with fertility gods and ancient serpents – flushing wine, spirits, floral arrangements, cats with three good legs, giraffes with eyes like egg yolk swimming in bacteria into one giant misinformed conga line – it stutters me with images of myself in patterns – can’t think straight, only crooked – the tentacles of my brain rot and fall to my feet, if I eat them it’s just more of same – let them go – let them run – I can hear them squeel so familiar it de-evovles my brain – I smile in rustic pain vacuumed by the stale sense of community – buildings washed away – let their tired rooves sag, let their legends die – sorry, no shirt no shoes no service – no truth here – I collapse in quicksand – I’ve drowned a thousand times, one more won’t hurt – infected trees swallow birds nesting in blow up dolls – a kid in a ramones shirt takes a puff of his imagination and exhales art – a mean spirited cowboy with a belt buckle of jesus’s dick places the spur of his boot gently on my face and RRIIIPPP ….. – blood shoots the night, blackens the air in a mist with more sets of eyes and teeth and smarts than an urban public school – now merely conversation starters, “My what a beautiful scar you have, where can I get one like that?” – the gap don’t sell these scars but you can find all the mirrors you want – just smash it and grab your rebellion in the palm of your bloody hand – sorry, if you don’t have a reciet I can’t tell you your sign, you do want a sign don’t you – make sure not to slip on that pile of shit on your way out, you wouldn’t want it to sue – marketing diseases and fashion trends must get confusing – always mistaking one for the other – the neon sign absorbs the sounds of drunken hogs on the street – waiting for the day of release – when the stored up sonic energy manifests beaming onto the first thing that moves – pull the old switcharoo – let them hang on poles and inform the populace that the girls are in fact nude – let them hum for untold hours watching flys and grins and hoboes taking a shit next to an empty squad car laughing hystericaly while his drinkin buddy gets a minimum sentence of forty lashes – eighteen CRACK nineteen CRACK – you have the right to shut the fuck up – you have the right to do what I tell you, when I tell you – twenty-three CRACK twenty-four CRACK twenty-five CRACK – if you choose to waive this right, well, you don’t even want to know – thirty CRACK thirty-one CRACK – you have the right to have no rights – CRACK – anything you do will be held against you in the rat race -CRACK – but I’m up here with the cheese – CRACK – sorry, no shirt no shoes no service – no truth here
