i was begging,” can you let me out?”`
from the confines of a seemingly cozy house.
but now it’s masked with insult and blood
rushing from the throat of their youngest son.
i concoct schemes of liberation
due to my unbecoming mutation
into an epidemic, a fumbling piece of shit,
and i’d like to spare them the trouble of raising it
but i don’t really have a home.
well, there is this place
though its kinda prone
to scratching and smashing
my self worth.
once my bedroom,
now a brain-dead pervert.
so
i get in the habit of
spaced-out relaxation
and becoming fat and drunk and happy
with the loafing situation.
the joy of pleasantly having
zero direction,
the sort of idleness that is
cooked to perfection.
i get turned on by wide-open spaces,
the privilege to move, the headroom erases.
climbing the walls of a handmade house of correction
and i sense that this could be swaggers resurrection.
maybe we can go
to the City with a Fighting Chance
beside gypsies widowed
by a lead singers romance
who made tender melodies
from sheer monstrosity
but then lost her voice
and her
immortality.
but now
it is wide open.
come with me.
i think i’m single again.
i
was far away
but now I’ve reexamined
who i was,
the shit i took for granted.
i
am now
ready, willing and able
to bust the sloth
through a motherfucking table.
and
stand over
its rickety, aged body,
slamming my foot
into the accused party.