Wednesday night triple.
Letʼs not fucking reduce it to play it safe
the drink isnʼt the conduit or reason
or a fucking weak road to write the truth or
an excuse
to hate without disclaiming anything
burn the reasons why not
burn the fucking effigies of
centuries-long bullshit
tricks of the old page
manipulation of the weak and trusting
adulterers and thieves and con-men
working under the guise of loving
Christ,
of bullshit virtues
repeated forgiveness of sin
fuck each and every one of these
deficients
the still and nowhere dark of death
waits for them like everyone else
the earth will harvest them
as fast as the dead before them
and behind them is
the damage left for theirs
through which to sift and work
while honest men bleed
or give until they bleed and
and some of them need to
women misused and abused
and some of them need to be
the damage of all this infects the children
mass-connected and sprawled out
informed and dead and lost on risk
soft in the gut
soft in the instinct
all our lives 100 years left
at best
pigs rooting in greed
fat ass fucks
take at the trough
steal with smiles
our children raped
with ideals of
kneeling pigs
with one eye
on the door
the lack of grace and the forgotten
feel of cold sun at dawn
the first kiss
the first caress
the first sounds
of the water breaking shore
or the metallic taste of
stardust beneath the
panhandles of road
and dirt
extinction of travel,
of the hunt
the love of us relegated to
acceptance of anything
that stays out of the way
regardless of its size or stupid
recklessness
while outside the moon bears down
upon a tired old mother
polluted and disfigured
her oceans diseased
with the dream of pigs
but beyond this filth
the stars still shine
upon the artists
the blood from broken
calluses
the heat of
animal sex
the riffs of loud music
the clay of sweaty smocks
the stretching of new canvases
the words that run across the page
you know like I know
the truth
is ours
still
and the
true world
is here still
for us to dine
upon the
flesh
of
pigs.