. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Friday, March 9, 2012

Blood for Blood

It's been a hard life, y'all...

We play this blood for blood
And gasoline
Vile thoughts born years ago
Of men in Death Masks
Death March
He comes in a crooked knife
Clean marble tiles
Metallic stall doors
The watchman’s axe goes clink clink on the polished floor
A hooker with blow in her brain
Blood on her fake tits and perpetually hard nipples
On the toilet seat below her
Her lifeless eyes open and a spray pattern on the wall behind her

No one can see me in the street
Sleeping taxi men
Night chill and the blinking stop lights
Broken rear windshield
Glass on the HK45 compact in the back seat
A twinkling star pattern dancing with the faces of orange tenements
A warm suppressor
And somewhere
Somewhere in the empty city behind me
The fading police sirens
Laser light show
Fake passport in the bathroom trash
Spinning wheels until the morning

They sold their organs
First Rule in a knife fight:
Everybody get’s cut
Asian Trinket Men with the same face
Seoul food
Reaching into their jackets
Cut-throat instigators
Agitators in the meat locker
We found her with her chest sewn shut
Her kidneys in a foreign country
Golden tusks
Pinky-finger ring
White powder in plastic bags
Ice on the eyes in the ice-chest

We are the Devil’s thieves
Page boys with blood on our hands
Knives in our boots
Of Men and Mice
And Shadows
Daily combat of heart and muscle
Of guts and will
Of flesh and bone and unseen things in-between
To reclaim our lost humanity
Blue Goose footsteps in the hall
We volunteer to rise when Death enters the chamber
To shirk our daily chores
Suffer the world on our shoulders
And bear the scars of sacrifice and shame for the rest of our lives


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