deepundergroundpoetry.com
Hijacking the Panic Wagon
yesterday, I had six weeks
to make my cross-country journey
today,
I have ten sleeps ‘til Brooklyn
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck.
Exercise One
(Back to the basics)
ground yourself
see
feel
hear
smell
taste
I can’t see for shit,
eyes jumping ship before
I could finish reading
the carefully worded bomb
detonating on boring white
photocopied letter head
I’m surprised you didn’t
lose a few fingers
typing that up
my apartment’s been rented
to some other idiot
crazy enough to live
in this wasteland
of nondescript normality;
blah, blah, blah
effective December first
PS ~ we forgot to tell you
a month ago
ope!
for what it cost to live here,
you should have gone
with embossed, asshole
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck.
sweat trickles
down throbbing temples
skin overheated
chilled to the bone
overlapping confusion
and clarity;
I want to run
but my feet won’t move
rooted
to this ugly brown carpet
it’s soft
there we go
now we’re getting somewhere
Maybe.
fuck!
fuck!
Fuck.
do you hear what I hear?
the upstairs neighbors
are dragging bodies
across the floor again;
you’d think by now
they’d learn to miss
the furniture
rain against the roof
no
hungover, I left
my noise machine on
this morning,
stumbling out of bed
to call in sick to work
sick of my own shit, ha!
I tilt my head back
towards the wall;
the entire universe
comes along
for the ride
I’m going to be sick
fuck!
Fuck.
fight or flight is a funny thing
when you can do neither
I sink into this moment;
finding the proverbial
happy place;
it’s still happy for me, you know
breathe in,
breathe out
breathe in,
breathe out
breathe in,
breathe out
someone is grilling,
lucky bastards
the flaming sirloin
makes unabashed love
to crisp autumn air
I still want to go camping
and...onions?
I’m jealous,
which beats being
suffocated
any day of the week
Fuck.
my tongue finally
braves the open space
between my teeth
to taste iron on my lips
there’s already enough
blood in this water,
no more
fuck.
trembling fingers
nervously gripping ~
sipping dollar store tea
from a handmade cup
the story of my life
pen and paper in hand
embossed, because
I’m not an asshole
I plan sure steps
with shaky fingers
I have ten whole days
to make my cross-country journey
today,
I have ten sleeps ‘til Brooklyn
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck.
Exercise One
(Back to the basics)
ground yourself
see
feel
hear
smell
taste
I can’t see for shit,
eyes jumping ship before
I could finish reading
the carefully worded bomb
detonating on boring white
photocopied letter head
I’m surprised you didn’t
lose a few fingers
typing that up
my apartment’s been rented
to some other idiot
crazy enough to live
in this wasteland
of nondescript normality;
blah, blah, blah
effective December first
PS ~ we forgot to tell you
a month ago
ope!
for what it cost to live here,
you should have gone
with embossed, asshole
Fuck!
Fuck!
Fuck.
sweat trickles
down throbbing temples
skin overheated
chilled to the bone
overlapping confusion
and clarity;
I want to run
but my feet won’t move
rooted
to this ugly brown carpet
it’s soft
there we go
now we’re getting somewhere
Maybe.
fuck!
fuck!
Fuck.
do you hear what I hear?
the upstairs neighbors
are dragging bodies
across the floor again;
you’d think by now
they’d learn to miss
the furniture
rain against the roof
no
hungover, I left
my noise machine on
this morning,
stumbling out of bed
to call in sick to work
sick of my own shit, ha!
I tilt my head back
towards the wall;
the entire universe
comes along
for the ride
I’m going to be sick
fuck!
Fuck.
fight or flight is a funny thing
when you can do neither
I sink into this moment;
finding the proverbial
happy place;
it’s still happy for me, you know
breathe in,
breathe out
breathe in,
breathe out
breathe in,
breathe out
someone is grilling,
lucky bastards
the flaming sirloin
makes unabashed love
to crisp autumn air
I still want to go camping
and...onions?
I’m jealous,
which beats being
suffocated
any day of the week
Fuck.
my tongue finally
braves the open space
between my teeth
to taste iron on my lips
there’s already enough
blood in this water,
no more
fuck.
trembling fingers
nervously gripping ~
sipping dollar store tea
from a handmade cup
the story of my life
pen and paper in hand
embossed, because
I’m not an asshole
I plan sure steps
with shaky fingers
I have ten whole days
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