Death of Poets

until the wind
rots whole forever
This one started
as two crossed out lines
no thought just scribbled
failure & no voice
and ended as
eight mishandled lines
almost
saying something--

The Balm

Fuck, I'm dying from the taste of
banana/berry,
anybody can talk about Bukowski
talk about truth,
talk about fucking,
but banana/berry?

go ahead and say Hem
was your biggest influence
who gives a shit
he should be, really
think about it,
unlike banana/berry,
which doesn't think or
feel, just exists to torment--

I can't get this viscous,
vicious balm out of my
mouth or my thoughts,
even as your sleeping body
breathes in rhythm with the
tires crunching pavement outside;
I'm helpless--

and the world goes home to lonely
darkened halls and paranoid fears;
anybody can vomit some words
onto a page, for their own
self-serving needs, read
Blake swinging empty bottles at shy stars,
screaming of visions, moaning
into the face of it, groaning,
blithering, swallowing
banana/berry
but it talks an idiot to want to write about it