Joe Chill

(or "Fucked Up as a Football Bat")




I kiss the mist &
 listen for that highway hiss
 while snorting a portal
 to the chortle loose
 & whoring to a dooring
 where karmic floorings
 rise suboxone skies.

 All I need is a breed
 in cement & resent
 the weekend after the amber
 of the fourth of July:

 a net worth whet works by
 a grind resigned to breathing powder
 louder than crows
 & half a loo
 fills the kidney screws
 where I'm black & blue & tried & true
 & tin to the streets with a rail for pain.

 A dirty rocketship rockskip
 sunfall cream/
 dancing a slip off the broken strip
 & soaking on the leaves
 & bringin' in the sheaves
 with a babe-teething ease...
 lightning grease in a smokestack gleam/

 glamour in tanks with fumes to scream
 the strain of the coil that is my turmoil
 turns my thoughts into oil
 (like goat piss into gasoline)

 burned in turn like earned recoil-
a real good feel-good stays my sword
 at the word of the lord
 & the lord
 & the lord...

 I shall want for the saunt' or gaunt in the haunt
 or dream for the beam 'long these endless roadside blooms
 where I get so attached to the brick-ed-ly black
 & the stack I lack for eternal wrack
 within mobile tombs 'til shotguns womb...

 I hist my kiss & listen for a full moon blur,
 snorting a rail to those forgotten trails.

 All I breed is a need for rambling spells
 & a network
 wet work
 grinding by subutex skies.

 Louder than the loneliest sound,
 I have to hang my thang & twang a twist
 on my wrist to bleeding grounds…