Twat the Bard

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"What They See"

My childhood tastes like oblivion and nostalgia.
I have been a pain in the ass for far too long.
I have acne scars on my face and eyes in my head
but I still can’t find any beauty inside of my caverns.

Sometimes I take a lantern with me
when I venture into the darkness
so I can pretend to see what they see.

I have to go see my probation officer on Wednesday
and I’m not too excited about my future.

"Beware, I am"

I am teeth in flesh and bones breaking.
I am not myself and I am someone else.
I am old and dirty and moving forward.

Beware, I am.

"Every Other Day"

I am slowly becoming an uglier man.
The sun is in my eyes but I’m so cold.
I just want everyone to shut up
and everything to stop.

Subtle mutations take place on a daily basis.
but every day feels like every other day.
My ideas are drying into a fine dust
and every time I trust time
I get a little bit uglier.

"Blizzards and Blisters"

I need to catch my breath, I need to get a grip.
My ancient pride is crumbling under the weight
of reality and cops and money and winter winds.

The cinders are pinned against my thin skin
as I try to ignore the blizzards and blisters.
My grin isn’t as abundant as the grind.

I am trapped in time and doomed to be mine.

"Melt With Me"

My bed is dry and I am restless,
my heart is beating like I’m too high and too hot.
I’ve been laying here forever and I don’t know how to move.

I want toes tap dancing on my tongue like it’s monsoon season
and my bedroom was built for anything but sleeping.
Let’s get sweaty until the levy breaks and breaks and breaks.
We’ll breath heavy while the bed shakes and shakes and shakes.

Staple gun my passionate attraction to my tongue
and don’t let me come up for air until I get the job done.
Oh, won’t you melt into my bed with me?

"Embers"

Embers in my bed
are slowly burning my security blankets.
There’s a woman who sits at a desk
and tells me what I can and cannot do.
The people who disregard her wishes
end up locked in a cage dressed in striped suits.

There are cops with badges and guns,
and every cop has a radio and a squad car
and badge and a gun and a god and an ego
and a chip on their shoulder holster.
Bad food, bad brains, bad days,
and every road is a locked door.

I have to explain my whereabouts
to a woman at a desk who has the
cops on speed dial and takes her
orders from a judge who mainlines 
pure greed into a broken system
of locked cages and pointing fingers,
but nobody seems to get why I have
these embers in my head.

I am gonna start putting together solo AND collaborative poetry zines in the next little bit here (I’m sick of letting my ideas stagnate).

I’m fairly terrible at doing layouts and collating; any advice you could offer me would be FANTASTIC!

"Worst Thing Ever"

There’s no more coffee left in my cup
and I don’t possess the mental stability
to deal with the crushing weight of the
knowledge that I’m far too depressed
to go fill my cup back up again.

"Pink and Spikey"

It was almost winter and I was walking downtown
to see a show at the 231 House of Muses.
I was so baked that my head felt like an inflatable raft,
filled with caramel, sinking into the darkest depths of Lake Superior.

I had a really stupid haircut, as teenagers often do, pink and spikey.
All of my clothes had holes and patches and holes and patches.
I marched onward with the grace of an infant in mid-tantrum
as the jocks in a passing truck repeatedly called me a faggot.

I entered the alleyway that led to the back of the building
and locked eyes with a girl who became my goddess,
who became my wound, who became my ghost.
She looked good but not too good to be true.
She was both.

"Me, though"

I wasn’t really being me, though.

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