Thursday, June 14, 2012

Tipping or Rocking May Cause Injury or Death


We are not vending machines,
We are Salvation Army bins,
Mending the hem of hope and
Manufacturing rags out of despair,
Carrying our notebooks like pottery class ashtrays,
Tapping out the fags of our white hot wit;

Our poems are toy guns that shoot flags that say
Pffff...I’m lonely

We are not vending machines,
We are android psychopaths.
We rape and kill our childhood and
Wear its skin like a clown suit;
The process of writing is merely the
Act of rubbing the lotion in.

We are angry and we don’t know why,
Riding toward death on the horses of regret.

We masturbate in public
We self-mutilate in public
And we over-dramatise

Our poems are suicide notes that lack conviction.

We are not vending machines,
We are fountains that spit coins back at you,
Stamped with: Souvenir of Me.

We write poems on the back of postage stamps
We write poems on toilet paper planes
Our verses are homing pigeons.
We tend them. Feed them seeds of ideas.
Wrap scrolls of tiny careful text around their legs.
Stroke their necks, before snapping them and
Releasing them on our breaths.
Our poems fly like monuments.

We are not vending machines,
We are TV green screens:
Insert your nirvana here.

We hate the way we love ourselves
We call all mirrors narcissists
And write poems like smashed glass.

We are hot. Like moonlight
And constant as the sea
We are not great dancers,
We are bad strippers;
Each poem a car crash lap dance.

We are not vending machines,
We were forced to choose to reveal the bad candy within.

1 comment:

  1. I recognised myself in this (as many poets would), but I could never put it as eloquently as you manage to. I loved it CJ - it made me smile and feel stuff.

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