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

Amidst

intolerable offense

Your lack of accountability is intolerable

But what’s left

To rage against?

Hollow egos incapable of bearing the weight of their own shame?

Broken brittle

Nuts

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?

My heart

Don’t ya have all the power?

My heart

Hold all the cards you brutal brute

Stops

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?

Cortisol elevator

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

Imperceptible madness

I’d rather wither away than waste any more time convincing your faulty amygdala is worth my compassion

Or

Grace?

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?

1,2,3

Not us!

A thousand mercies

We beg

For relief that never truly comes

Tonight I will not lie

To myself

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.