the usual weapons of choice
and the poets grab
a bottle and a pen
the usual weapons
of choice
now picture your
mother naked on
the floor of the
bathroom
and your first thought
is she is dead
or picture pissing on
your father’s grave
or go visit your sister
and piss on her utopia
like how your future
was flushed so many
years ago
it ain’t some miracle
we tend to thrive on
chaos and dysfunction
we are wired for these
moments
trained to find the right
words to destroy, uplift,
conquer and heal
whatever the words
happen to bring us
when our backs are
firmly planted against
that proverbial wall
Horror Sleaze Trash 