Dark Ruffled Beast
Like most nationalists
I quietly recede into
the motley parenthesis
and plot my next strafing.
I like jazz while counting
my rounds. Scoping my prey
w/Mingus on. I don’t go for heavy metal
or EDM. Never have. Makes me nervous
and jumpy isn’t the mindset
when prepping a raid on
I count bodies while Miles runs
the voodoo ’69. A dark, ruffled beast
eating deep into the consciousness.
Deep into the abhorrence we suffer and feign.
Mostly feign. Then go about our day.
I’m the new kid in town
pitching guns, gas masks, and layaway
to the would be heroes
of dishonored kings. I’m the
cheapest whore among my kin
w/a thin, mocking prayer
and an ill-defined God. I’m the shill
for president selling cruel dogma.
Heroin. Rendition. I play for the ladies
birthing new congress. I witness the scope
of the sterile parade. I sell you the tincture
and tonic. I sell you the keys
to the manacles.
You Missed a Comma
Let’s go on the premise
that you didn’t read them right
and that’s why my book
didn’t cut mustard.
Maybe you replaced
my emphasis w/yours
– a puckish liberty at best –
and missed the boat.
Missed the internal language
of decay. The words w/o compassion.
Maybe you missed a comma
or didn’t heed my marginal notes.
The fine print of my psychosis
is in full view and I suspect
you might have thought I was kidding.
I wasn’t. It’s all fucked up
and I’m gonna let you know about it.
I won’t let you forget. As my next submission