The End

Its kind of amazing he thought they'd notice
The burns on his hand from the lit tobacco first
To hint towards burns less visible
But everyone defied the axiom
Their smiles and anger a half healed surface
On the fourth degree burns the nicotine stains could have betrayed
He was excellent at hiding for he was a thief who half wanted to be found
To be stripped in the town square for his crimes
With the rest, with everyone
Naked and crying while the hangman was moved
And removed his cloak to join the rest
Stepping off his creaking political platform
To find rest among the wicked

Rest among those despicable wicked selves he knew
he knew so well
he knew the in and outs of that soul
Warmed by their fiery felt feelings
The envy and hate of the normal and average was a comfort at that point
He realized his judgment was a double edged sword only when it fell from his hand and clanked on the planks
His half healed heart tore open from the force of it
and all his thoughts were laid bare in a pageant they all wordlessly watched
with gasped faces and knowing nods

their faces shown the blue night-light of stars that made him smile as a child

The Soldier's "Sober" Conclusions

I can only guess and hope they’ve felt something like what I felt
That caused them to do what I fear I will
And its generational but the generation is faulty its littered with discarded genes in thoughts that were excised by righteous men among the failing
My family’s health slipped through that net and I’m the result a man who can only absorb and type so much and all he’s good at look at what he makes he cant absorb as fast as some but presumes to ascribe faster than a prophet
What a sick shitting little flea of misbegotten misery that little flake on the shoulder of atlas thought he could rest
On his families laurels
On the worlds shoulders
A tipsy, weighted crest

The Soldier Marches to Moscow

Stripped of profusions the pink ones illusions drifting from my dick now sullen and sick with satisfaction grim pacific thought left wasting on the ground of earth erected held by a shaky atlas distracted by harlots on the left and maidens fair that are free but never seem to be drawn what a surprise
caught up in a net of thought whose illusions were wrought by the same blood alcohol content that’s pressed through the same generations my grandfathers deaths liquid obliteration in their thoughts

A silly sad soldier who drinks stolen rum
And tastes poetry on his tongue
Stumbles through lost and locked buildings
Mercantile and meaningless as him
He counted up the nights straight he had stopped in this town
The faded edge-burned nights that trailed off into his dreams about women
Some he’d met and some he would after death
Both were nicer in the haunted corridors of his mind though
And he had gotten used to that
One night inside a dank room fraught with electric worries he could only half identify
It was a morning never mind just enough light provided to show
That he had reached to stroke the face of a new love
The thought being the most pleasing he had in many years
The type that to remember gets you misty eyed but you only know its cuz you thought about so much

You sort of wanted to cry to it
He probably would later on from a barely related cause

But that thought…
Her skin felt rough like cotton sheets as his hand pulled away from his pillow
She smelled like his bed
Because she was
And he probably said nothing, didn’t even grunt
Because no one was watching

Bar Hop Beliefs

The field spread out before him a disgusting mix of colors intertwined and mating

Mixed and sexual red of the street light mocking, promising

A felt feeling that never comes

A meant meaning that never feels

Yet he felt and felt until his veins fled the bleeding

Frightened by their own circular work

And he felt that it was momentary and forever

And he knew that the stop light held st benedicts thoughts

And he thought he knew it all, the Guinness, the Indian girl

It all made sense in his system

But it left out tomorrows thanksgiving

The sitting around a bird industrial farmed for commercial interests pure and puerile

A cold rejoinder to pretensions and tortured ethic racks

He took a small breath and bit

His smoky thought containing and obscuring dreams of her that never eased and always burned atop his minds fuel

Tire fire observed and observing by the heat of the blaze distorting faces in the glow

Fret and frer and flame atop his ever burning thoughts

post secondary

Scenesters in skinny jeans
Lesbians in flannel
Sandwich board commies
and that kid with the dreads.
Drum circle daycares
Trash bags of weed
Cramming on pills
Oh, thirsty thursdays!
Blacking out
Getting laid
Shrooming on Sundays
Smokin butts, shitty food
Too long walking in sandals
Mad chill new music
and more boring keggers.
Three bucks in the bank
Ripping down flyers
Newspaper sucks ass
but let’s write a novel.
Taking off semesters
Tuesday night road trips
Don’t think, just go
Student loan payments?
Fuck you college.

summertime