Like buskers, we linger on the streets
telling false fortunes and charming snakes
of their cigarettes. We are filthy
on the inside with regrets
that get no forbearance.
In hand, we crack stolen pop-shit music into shards;
pieces of Warrant and Madonna and Hootie
become deadly Chinese stars in our grip.
Passersby unaware we are building
a shed of blood, stringing victims
from its shoddy framework in the back alley,
draining them like gutted pigs.
I plan on drowning you, by request,
in the contents of their discontent,
plan on hearing you scream for an end
as I keep releasing your head
above the bloodline of society.
But first, let us chew
the theory of relativity
between our teeth and bitch
about how bitter it tastes.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published By Apoetelephone 2/09 (Audio poem)
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