Warmth drools like a baby
On the grime grey rooftops
Liberalism spawned dystopian blocks
The windows are never washed there
It's the rain that reveals their guts

On your bus stop murders and attacks
Rife on the Piccadilly line, the hum
Of melted Smirnoff bottle angels lays
A drunken lesbian kiss of delight
Party people live for the moment

When you step outside in the morning
To work for callus marks and gas, the trees
That line your route bob thick punk manes
In time to the beat of the rocking trains
They know what The Clash is about

And when you come back from a getaway
Seaside trip with sand in all your cracks
A little salt on your lips, an assault in the paper
You wallow in the polluted city allure
Like you're breathing in god's ****** incense

There it lies, the roll-up skyline
That would make any two-shoed god give in
To railway bridge peer pressure on his chest
At 4 am with deodorant blowtorches spinning
Leaving entrails of delight in the filthy half-blackness

It's a privilege to live in for sure.

I’ve been looking,
through glass windows,
reflecting city lights
of the night life.

Strange phantasms
pass like distorted
carnival glasses,
mind mirrors broken
from the harsh words
spoken.

I’ve been searching,
seeking the smiling hearts
of brave angels
who face hateful strangers
that are full of poison,
and spitefully spitting
sick syllables,
possibly contagious,
as they go
instantly viral.

I’ve been watching
cops stopping
particular people,
seen one to many
real life movies
that end in tragedy,
and in observing
the hurting
of children
and elderly folks
I have fallen
to tears of rage
and anguish.

I’ve been wondering
if in my wanderings
seeing this sideshow spectacle,
of disrespectful,
cruel, and hateful
authoritarians,
have I found the true face
of America?

Mud bath
Doc Martens
                        Back of head
Off the beaten path
                        Still beaten
But at least not dead
*******, they said
Don't understand what I did
But was
Drowning in the ground
One day they'll come around
To me

Doc Martens
                        Back of head
Off the beaten path
                        Still,
                        Beate­n
Dead.

I was by myself. My heart was longing for a pulse other than my own but I wasn’t ready. I was afraid of the commitment... afraid that it would go wrong again that I would go wrong again. But my heart was yours as soon as I saw you. I adopted you and you adopted me. I used to have a dog, but he never really liked me. He only laid around- but never next to me. He ran away. I thought you were different though. So I put my trust in you. I took you home. I showed you where you would sleep and eat and how to curl into the bend of my legs when the rain would hit the window on a Saturday morning. I showed you to my friends but they said you were too protective of me. Like you owned me instead of the other way around. I brushed it off and told myself they were just jealous because they didn’t have a dog. They had always wanted a dog, after all.

We were perfect for each other. We played and you watched me laugh when you would do something funny. But then you would just watch as the tears streamed down my cheeks when you would upset me. I was mad at first, but you were just a dog. You didn’t mean it. So you’d sit there. Occasionally sniffing or scratching and I expected nothing and forgave you like it was my fault.

It got worse as the months went on. I tried to leave but you’d sit in front of the door looking at me. Your eyes quickly turned away from the puppy dog eyes I first fell into. You would bark so loud that it would echo off the couch and doors and then the stupid expression on my face every time I tried to walk away because I thought I could actually get away with it this time. But you hadn’t changed.

I hoped it was all bark but I knew when I pushed you too far the bite would come. Your distorted expression that was pierced by the stinging spit that spewed from between your lips shook me to the ground. I was then on your level, perfectly vulnerable for your teeth to sink into my arms and legs and face and torso and every part of my body that I though was mine... but it wasn’t. It was yours. I let you own me. I held on so tight to the leash that I thought I had on you I didn’t notice the one around my own throat that burned deeper into my veins that strained each time I strayed too far. I turned from my friends and my self and the life I thought I wanted so I could cater to your needs and so you’d stay with me and not run away like the others.

I would see friends and family and they’d always ask about the bruises and cuts and I’d just say “dog bite”. But they only responded with “well, you must have done something to make him bite?”

Batteries of the skies;
booming thunders, and so are you.
You, the whirlwind the most ferocious,
befit such name ever notorious—

    ever in a strife of your own
    seemingly unending.

The whirlwind strikes hard
and fast, and as such; angels of death
descending, striking from the faint heavens
to accomplish its sole purpose, destructive in nature,

beseeching its everlasting glory
that’d evoke the sun’s jealousy, even.
Alas! You carry out the task
that spares none of the land,

taking away the dearest one from another, weeping,
flipping cars and engines from where they're standing,
while plucking out the road signs once robust
and even the trees once deemed so ancient—

none is spared but wrecked
before the might of the whirlwind
the total annihilation being its sole identity—
the one that destroys in the name of thy honor

    and in the very name of glory in vain.
    You look around—

only to see none has survived
or has been left alive; spectating
the empty earth and the water
while being dispersed, scattered amidst the air,

lifted by the hands of thy maker
disappearing—joining the void specters,
and thus befitting the word, truly,
the vainglory.

Pick your head up darling, your crown's falling.
She'd say as she sucker punched me in the gut again.

God, your eyes shine brighter than the brightest stars in the whole ******* galaxy.
She say'd as she slapped me across the face for the eighth time that night.

Baby there's no one like you...

But baby I love you...

But baby everything is gonna okay..

I'm not your ******* baby.

I'm a girl that should be able to stand on her own.

I'm a kid with ****** up issues thinking the only form of love was a hand around my throat.

I'm not your baby anymore but baby....please love me.

Just one more time.

Count or stop to count
7, 6, 5… then silence.
Started from the one to countless

Fatally wounded, again inequitable ethnic
the trumpet sound of trauma
In a private car, but this was
not a public performance

7 bullets transmit the pride and prejudice
Police have millions of reasons to suspect,
but we criticize the moon—
tonight it’s dark as hell in a drawer.

Count or stop to count
5,6,7… then gun violence.
His truth is lazy
and infinite as broken glass.

You are in our prayers— we pray infinitely.
We would like to have
a brave trumpet show for ourselves—
Deep sorrow, tumultuous but informative.

Say it to me, baby,

that you want me—still—
after all that I've done to you,
and only.
    
I hear you breathing out hot
—lying flattened on the cold floor—
even after the hard bruisin'

you've gone through—swell, sure it was.

And I wrecked such havoc on you
all because I care for you,
nothing more, nothing less.

I beat you up swell
to get you in a better shape
just like a sculptor

beating his stone
into the shape of David—bare naked.
I'm modern Michelangelo, so to say,

and I want you
to whisper to me
that you crave me,

    that you desire still
    such tyranny of mine
    even more. So just say it,

for your perfection
and a sheer thrill that follows
—all these right at our hands—are so close.

    Wicked as it is,
    my whispering to you demands it.