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This Blackest Purse
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1
i'm not who, with my eyes from stage, i claim to be,
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i've only cradled death in my own ending,
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flesh from far off and abstracted lit
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candle wick flickering
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and when a thing starts finishing around me,
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i faint or fake a moustache, an accent, or flee,
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in fear my expired license be pulled by sheer proximity
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fact: the poseur in the bowler gets shot first,
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thinks he's the shit cause he can spit and curse,
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actin' brash and flashin' a pistol that squirts,
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scowling, and shouting, "shall we dance?"
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should our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?
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mom, am i failing or worse?
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mom, am i failing?
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what should these earnest hands be holding?
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still sportin' my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers,
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i wanna operate from a base of hunger,
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no longer be ashamed and hide my
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tears in shower water while i lather for pleasure
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i wanna speak at an intimate decibel
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with the precision of an infinite decimal,
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to listen up and send back a true echo
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of something forever felt but never heard
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i want that sharpened steel of truth in every word
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the small fry in the bow tie dies first,
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acting wild like the spirit of god moving after church,
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faking he's hard like he's packed down dirt,
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already, and yelling, "be my guest"
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should our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?
30
mom, am i failing or worse?
31
mom, am i failing?
32
what should these earnest hands be holding?
33
should our heroes hands be holding this blackest purse?
34
mom, am i failing or worse?
35
mom, am i failing?
36
what should these earnest hands be holding?
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