by Derek Richards
in old salem we hang witches
then sell t-shirts,
the harbor drifts alone,
isolated from telephone
poles and promises.
everytime you smile, my dear,
i see bullets and misled angels;
handguns and hallucigens
teach one manners.
the really pretty girls wait
for someone to make them ugly,
worthy and homesick, carefree
and degraded. like a daddy
wasn't poison enough.
wishing i was still young enough
to fake the blues, desperate to peruse
expectations. when did i get fat
on smooth leather and blonde hair?
there is always a plan, I’m a cannibalistic
poet, an intellectual eating his young.
you are comfortable, busy reading,
hidden behind a force field of alarm codes,
watching "gangland" on the history channel,
sucking down maple-walnut, complaining
about weight-loss commercials. dying bland.
and so here we are again, in old salem,
remembering witches and dollar draft nights.
tonight, it's all about me.
i am mad and drunk on kerouac,
vodka and hollow points.
you, my sweetheart, my aching love,
you must forget everything
and shut your mouth.
- ► 2010 (224)
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- ▼ December (39)