ars poetic part 3

626 words
Sometimes
I think
how we
perceive
us
with certainty
every thing and body
else
perceives
hung up
insecurities
left out
to dust
the sky
in walk
-in closets
on vines
Old clothes
we don’t want
to get
rid of
Pasted
To us
With heat
sugar
Some
in bags waiting
to be
sacrificed
to Good Will,
Or “God’s Will”
Where others
People
pilgrims
wear them
too
I paid
damn good
money for that
insecurity
someone else
should
wear it
for a bargain,
One time
my mom
threw
away
a bunch
of
my winters,
Claiming her
lamb
had carried
out
the deed,
In a fit
of fluffy
rage,
the fur of his
face
sculpting
to the point
an arrow
shades
of his eyes
closing to
red
Tossing
them
into his
truck
with
the same
smile he
would give his
son throwing
footballs
backyards
of dust
and
despair
a dream
was only
my mother
stumbled
Rocks filling
Her
head
needed them
more
than I did,
she was
just hording
them
whoring
them
51 years
In Vegas
Of Loss
Pushing stone
planets up
hills infinite
companions
friends
to faux
pushing that stone,
Build-ing
up
immunity
to the poison,
keeps eating
it and
vomiting it
up
over and
over and
over again
until she can’t
tell
the difference
thought I would
write some
crazy
book about her
called
CRAZY
And
BITCH
Definitely
capitals
Deserv –
ed
But no!
exclamation points
Sounds
like Courtney
Love’s autobiography
With
exclamation
points of
course
you
read
time
able
to tell
anything
real
lies
art
shit
All
of them
in one
big orgy
Of truth
Distaste
glory
Breeding
dumb virgins
Sucking
miserable cocks
Of men
who love
freedom
But I am
not one
of them
I am
sleep-less,
brimming stars
Mother-less,
one
Power-less,
air stuck
to wind
Latex
mittens
molesting Electric
rivers pierced
letters cement
victims reek
of herpes
and I
body guard
of disease
stay
away
mouthwashed
purity
stay
away icy
Apollo
Give me
back
to the dark
where
I can
judge
myself
in peanut
-butter and
jelly
silence and
cry to
drown
stuck to
walls
like flies out
of bombs
stand
the color
attached
to my
face
half lit
with fried
fear stuffed
in
my closet
lard coats
like death
for free
in sneering
cigarettes
dreams
where one
night stands
always linger
by the grass
of bulls
I read
books to
grimace
strung out
Seriously
I am strung
I am strung linear
strung
soaked strung
sunny
like fish
strung
stored
I am
too
loud
like fingers
and barbeque
bouts
of loud
immaturity
on my
wall
with apologies
don’t erase
three paragraphs of
whine
and beer
travelling
selling
tantrums
like apples
look like
who
I am
Flowing traffic
Stopped
Leaping
Through
Fields
Of slow
motion
David bowie
Folded
Cut
Like video games
Playing
My
Hands
Eye
Vomit
Levels
And
Buttons
Birth
Fingers
And
I am
The beginning
Of
Somewhere
Going lost
Woke up
to it
now
I’m
Tired

feeling
Good
To lead
A
War
Against
My imagination
With my
Eyes
Out of
Pockets
On a shirt
I don’t wear
Enough
To wash
Where
I can
Hear
Nothing
To feel
Better
In
Afternoons
Spent
Raining
Around
The clock
Losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing
Losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing
Losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing
Losing Losing Losing Losing Losing losing losing losing losing
Losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing
Losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing
Losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing losing
Sitting
Around to try and find the words
Losing
Losing
Losing
Losing
Losing
Losing
Talking
around to try and find the words
Losing
Losing
Losing
Losing
Losing
That day I felt good enough to write something

Brooke Burns