sludge

you bleed like a fountain
when the tides aim for saltwater sky
& all you want to do is drown-
i wonder how long it’ll take for you
to stop writing like that.

once upon a time, you were blue
train tracks rolling down cigarette
addiction and soft metaphors.
your mother had no way of recognizing you
from the sallow skin
and crevice-deep wrinkles.
you were a cliche
romanticizing the evenings,
wishing you were dead
on paper.

a beating heart floats for
30 years in stagnant waters,
fragmented like glass windows
& diluted bottle messages.

you were polluted rivers,
deadfish-the
flow of words
gone

as you sit there with your
computer static
electricity
yeah, you and your click-click-
clicks in that blank, blank space.
your typewriter doesn’t exist
but you press the keys too hard
as if it shows some promise.
you read book after book after book
trying to declutter shit.

nothing comes up.
this goes on for a few more years
until you pile dust &
every bottle you drink has
a burnt out cigarette
like a message to nobody.

it’s 4 in the morning.
you’re bleeding like a fountain, again.
you didn’t want this
but it sells.
your couch is a sludge of paperweight
& ball sweat, but that’s all there is
to it.

it’s just metaphors
& your agent kills time in
a bar next to a priest
looking for a
break.

sludge. funny how you
never used that in a poem.
how it just rolls off the tongue
like your shoddy words-

but who knows?
put it in your next chapbook.
it could be your break.
it suits you. you’re a landslide
of shit & you know it’s true.

or you could just spend forever
talking about that empty space
in your ribs
& how birds stand on moonlight
with their heads cocked to one side
like a big ‘i-told-you-so’.
spend another decade picking daisies
& walk around like a deluded
15-year-old.

just cut it. fuck it. write.
don’t give a shit when you
don’t sell a hundred copies in that book
launch. punch the world in the face.
it already has for so many years,
return the favor.

be brutal sex. talk about
machinery taking over the world.
how a big wall could
overthrow history.

come on.

don’t sit there.
don’t type about flowers.
Use Caps Lock.
or don’t. it’s your fucking poem.

but you sit there, 3 minutes into
wine, downtrodden
in every word that comes
out of your goddamn mouth
& you write about her-
even though she never existed
(or maybe she did. in the subconscious)

fine. write about ribs.
write about bones.
write about flowers.
cry me a damn river.

you bleed like a fountain
when the tides aim for saltwater sky
& all you want to do is drown

12/15/16
This has got to be the most brutal thing I’ve ever written. It’s ironic how I do half the things this thing is telling me not to do. I swear to god, I don’t know where this channeled from, but if this hits anybody, apologies in advance. Or not. I guess when you just let the words flow at 4:30 in the morning, you’d hit unexpected things.

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