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Poetry, Itís Offshoots and a Fuck You From the Working Class

Ivory towers and pot-shots go hand in hand
whining bullets puncture the masses
pontificated too from straight-pipes and the like
told what we must enjoy
how we must write
what to feel

each pulse of my heart pours blood into the inkwell
I tear off my finger nails and curse-ively write out
the sounds of flesh as itís parted by a blade
the smell of concrete in the nostrils of a junkie
that sleeps in his own urine praying to god he wonít wake up sober
the taste of ash and bile as another overdose is passed over
as simply the affliction of a drug addiction
nihilism tastes like cool aide
you know the type
sweet with the flavour of pussy and melted-dreams

but you wouldnít know real
hunger gnawing at your insides
a childs cry as you try to satiate it with water
and tears
swallowing your anger trying to make a meal of pain
because itís soft lament is all you can muster
as you screamed yourself hoarse
while your partners fists beat a drum of failure into your skin
then turned that drum on your children
while you lay a pile of broken things

I didnít buy my metaphors
no
I earnt them

tearing open wounds so you can
touch the world of the working class
but weíre too unclean for the likes of you
so sit
pontificate on metre and rhyme
and weíll burn here
where itís real
Commentonly
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