Mute meant obedience
All it really meant was cold compliance
Dissociation was a welcomed relief where inconvenient rage, terror and consequence should have rightly taken their place
Your lack of accountability is intolerable
But what’s left
To rage against?
Hollow egos incapable of bearing the weight of their own shame?
You revolt and exhaust me.
How much more of this?
That sacrificial lamb was slaughtered after a merciful thirty
Some odd years
This cow is past her prime.
Hey Minister, arrest me!
Can’t ya make it all stop?
Don’t ya have all the power?
Hold all the cards you brutal brute
By the blunt words cast
From your heartless tongue
Et tu Brutè?
Throwing ACE’s in our faces but no one’s listening to mute birds perched on Targeted stakes to prevent all the shit from soiling privileged windshields
Some days you’re the statue, you say?
What more than pretty stone creatures
Have we ever been?
Stare, admire, toss a copper and walk away.
Easy for you to play
I just wanna take the money I make
And I wanna go away
Stand here and endure this
Post traumatic Propagandhi
Selling your hanged nails
For the inheritance of a Lifetime
Dripping with whoredom
At the Met Pet Gallery
Of slut babies, low income and
Swarovski Crystal Meth
I refuse to protect you from this
Mirror Mirror on the wall
You’re the greatest failure
Of us all
But couture hides
A laundry list of sins
Now who’s the merciless one?
Up and down and down and up
Pent Up House!
There are no solid landings for winged things flying at heartbreak speed
For a lick of sweetness
I’d rather wither away than waste any more time convincing your faulty amygdala is worth my compassion
Where is she when you need her?
You don’t seem to listen when I tell you
I can’t take much more of this
What is freedom here!?
In debt up to our skyballs
Beyond the consolation prize of restitution
The twelve stars of Revelations
Who’re those chosen ones?
A thousand mercies
For relief that never truly comes
Tonight I will not lie
In codependent fantasies
that one day this’ll all be worth it
Sick to death of
Waking from one nightmare to the next
Suck, suck, suck
With pleading words
When all I really wanted to say
Was FUCT, FUCT, FUCT
Dead since the day we were born
So anyway. Amen.
The art is Pigeon King from a sketchbook I’m making for The Brooklyn Art Library. Today was beyond singular words like ‘hard’ or ‘bummer’ which is why I learned the second language of poetry. At least my soul can scream.