I painted a caricature of my soul
on a McDonalds napkin, with my blood.
It looked like Van Gogh's starry night
swirled, dark, distorted,
beautiful –

so I squeezed it inside my bloody fist
then tossed it in the urinal
and pissed on it
because I know I'm not
a masterpiece.

I'm just a drunk
punching mirrors in empty restrooms
at 1 in the morning,
leaving philosophical quotes inside the stalls
with a red sharpie
among the crudely drawn penises
and phone numbers of whores.

But I suppose
that after years of doing this
someone taking a shit had to have notice
what I left
for him to see,
and sat there for a while
thinking
about the beauty of life
and what it all really means
after finally seeing through the cocks and cunts
that plague the walls of the world,
then wiped himself
of all the shit
and walked out
inspired.

I am an artist
not a masterpiece.
And that’s exactly how
I want it to be.

Burn

sticks and stones

might break your bones

but my words

will fucking kill you.

this poem is a bullet

in the chamber

of a sniper rifle

and you're just cruising by

like Kennedy –

I'm about to blow you're mind.

take everything

you thought you knew about

poetry

and burn it,

rip pages out from Shakespeare

or the holy psalms

then roll this shit up

and smoke it –

I'm going to hell

not after some divine sentencing

but on a meteor crashing through the heavens

through a storm of pearly glass

then into the ground and all the way

to it's burning core

where evil souls scream

in eternal pain

bang

they’re all dead,

killed on impact.

immortal my ass.

the only immortal things in this world

are words,

and they drive people to death

insanity

or sometimes even

bliss.

Buildings fall

countries and empires crumble

music goes out of style –

but a king could end a life

or start a war

with just his

tongue

and watch the world end

if his heart so desired.

this ain't no goddamn poem

it's a hand possessed by the ghost of

Genghis Kahn

writing these words on a restroom mirror

with my blood.

I'm the anti-christ of literature

the savior of no one

but myself

and maybe a few other fucked up souls

I destroy along the way.

I am here to influence your children

and make them forget Wordsworth

and float with me like a cloud of smog

over a field detonated landmines

and bloody limbs –

fuck the daffodils

lets kill them with this acid rain

and reanimate the corpse of H.P. Lovecraft

with the lighting of our rage

while Cthulhu rises up from the sea

into our wild storm.

so burn the flags

but never

burn

the

books.

burn the corpses

but never

burn

their

words.

burn your skin

with cigarette butts

so you can write

about the

pain.

burn your poem

into the sun

so the world can revolve

around you.

and burn your mind

with the fires of your
soul

until everything you thought you knew

is ash

and everything you can't help but feel

is the wind that carries

those ashes away,

and kisses your skin, as if to say

“everything

will be

okay”

Romanticized

A heavy woman

with heavier eyes

stares attentively at the endless array

of romance novels

while I peek up over the cover

of a Bukowski book

after reading another poem

about his many whores.

We're all lonely, aren't we?

I wish I had money for a whore

but I don't even have money for this book

so I’ve just been sitting here, reading it

for an hour or so

and people watching between each

shoplifted poem.

“Hey kid, buy the book or leave!”

*Sigh*

so without saying a word

I nod politely

and get up to put the book back

but head towards the childrens section instead

and set it on a shelf

in front of fairy tales with sparkly covers

and leave it open,

pages spread like the legs of a used up slut

with a beautiful soul.

On my way out

I notice that the woman has left,

gone home to lay in bed naked

with fantasies of Fabio

or some other long-haired douche

with a disguising accent...

And now I'm going home too

to get drunk

pop a couple xanax

and write this shit

like the stereotypical poet I am.

What romantic fucking lives we all life.