Treaty of Will

Treaty of Will

Saturday,
November 26, 2011

6:37 PM

I idolize con-men,
drunk-drivers, and gamblers.

Dyings just a cunt
won’t let me buy her a drink yet.

Am I offensive?

A savage conditioned
to flinch

cries better worlds
than the one we live in

conjure up some damn
feeling,

won’t mind the
reality so long as she doesn’t have to listen to it.

I’m slitting
children’s wrists with a glue stick

basting them in
glitter and watching them bleed confetti

arts and crafts are
cut like whimpering teenage girls

fat farting heart
attack fathers, neutered in a nuptial

look at me, the
daughter-fucking dark knight

like I’m supposed to
anchor their tornado

 you’re the one that bought her a telephone,

if I was responsible
for this thankless sack of brittle bones

I’d let ’em pout
about it in a corn field,

where your wounds
leak the grease of hard work,

and they can learn
from the earth that there is

real worth and
significance

in chopping and
stacking and storing

cords of wood for
the winter that comes.

That’s the power of
individuals,

that maybe one woman
somewhere did something amazing,

but women as a
whole, ain’t nothing but

the plurality of
holes,

for they suffer so
well,

their toleration of
injustice,

boggles the mind,

they’ve been bred
for contempt,

the childless
suicide

breeds no followers

flowers in the grass
at the edge of a slaughter house.

if she let you get
this far,

you’d know that yet
men are far worse

cowardly objecting
to their role as

hero.

Bragging to their
diamond wives

at the extent to
which they can ass fuck other

harsh beaten dog
brained boys out of their money,

how they can roll
over for the top wolf,

the one holding the
reigns and designing the knives

at their throats,

men of passion hide
dreams of peace

and shy from
righteousness,

who grow portly and
strain to both be

and not be, as cruel
as they can.

I want to talk to
the person inside you,

not the cunt that
runs wild with your emotions,

or the stabbing
stubborn dick that controls you.

be less of the bitch
of the cock of the salesmen

less of the chief of
the title of the label of the namesake

and be the human
that we all have in common,

the one that shares
light with its friends in the darkness

you soft and hollow
heart of chalk dust

teach another
fucking primate how to shred ,

to edge, to bellow
the silence, to fly in the face of defiance

to last longer than
the hyperbole allows

and to seek and be
sought by that which by all rights

is owed them.

I bet you didn’t
know you have a favorite flavor of dissent

that you notate
isolation with a paradise grin

that what you want
is not satisfying,

when you have it
you’ll finally be dead,

and I’ll be off
somewhere

toasting ghosts of
muted microphones

and buying you a
drink.

Salute.

 

 

 

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