This gun to the temple is
driving me mental.
I’m no laureate but when
insanity’s all the rage
in this limerick of mine.
It’s a dream to unfurl us, for the sake of certain pearls; Shangri-La for an everlasting kiss with poisoned sights, to
to kill from
a place of love.
Hallucinations fakin’ orgasms of authenticity when you take my city and call it a slum, sitting so far above the fumes.
Are there, like, Coles Notes for struggle, DIY guides for watching status quos crumble? Is the voice of God guttural or even English?
However bloody the
wars of tone become, the feeling in my legs still wants to run, the voice in my lungs still falls in love with stupid things,
and I await
five seven fives
I used to love your stories until I saw how horribly they end;
I held onto octaves, afraid once autonomous, they would wear my smile like you did.
Andromeda to your Earth, taste of rock
bottom just to
balance your worth.
Violins left to defend against
And now that we’re alone with the corpses of self-importance, their unintimidated gaze, heaven’s blood is in the breeze and dead silence reigns supreme.
Not sure this poem has any real point besides
digital pencils that scrawled it, but I’m reborn every 60 seconds and live for all of it.
and before I ever felt the
steel beams bend or snap,
I had secured
the consent of twelve city
blocks to rock
their foundations and send
smoke plumes through their
’cause we reign
but were not
I lost so many decades
sitting on a bench,
just waiting for life to begin.
And I might die of madness before material bliss, having
twisted words of
the revered mundane;
running deeper into the heart of fear, begging to disappear inside its flying bullets.