Don’t bother flattering me with your

Fancy font

Full of holy smoke

And deliberation

About who did or didn’t need

A penal implant

Sacred substitution

For what?

The cosmic garden

Fertilized with human shit?

Good Lord,

Tired of being your whore

Bleeding love from

Slit wrists and I’s

Owe. Ewe. Mi.



The silent blizzard

Sleeping birth

Because she didn’t want to be disturbed

Departed from the garden

To wrestle bloated gators

Wild hammock



Snots and false kings

You must know it’s exhausting

And all for what?

Is you is

Or is I ain’t

Your baby?

The way you acting lately

Makes me doubt

Cut off from the earth


Who’s she?

And all her mal-nourishment

None of us are capable of that

Rotting cords hang


Of their own free will


Like dehydrated petals at the bar

Replaced by Lincoln’s head

Two, three, balancé

The twisted waltz

Of toes crushed in lambs wool

Cotton boxes


With satin string

Foot soldiers

And every kind of slave

Bleeding in pursuit of perfection

Some unchosen

Some choice

Grade A Beef

Hermetically sealed in


Skin tight

Body shakin’ booty bags

For peace we can never attain

For your

Amusement? Fulfillment? Gain?

Cosmic capitalist or celestial saint

Dear God,

I’m scared to ask.


This is a poem about bar sluts, sacrifices, spiritual pimps and mortal ho’s, existential crisis, slavery, umbilical cords, life as one gigantic traumatic birth, the hypocrisy of Christianity, the explotative nature of capitalism, roses, oh, and wanting to die. The voice of God is being played by jazz legend Louis Jordan. (Because pretty rich white ladies don’t own everything.) xo

14 thoughts on “Cut

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s