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Closed For The Season.


This agony

Tests my dimensions

Inspires a grand violence of spirit

Anger is an anaesthetic

That allows me to go through

The day

Numb and shivering

And how the world goes on

Ignoring my resentment

At the callow circumstances, fate swept

The house of cards from the table

How could a love so grand and operatic

Feel so prevalent on circumstance

That the blank, warm milk

Of domesticity

Tastes sweeter than the wine

I offered.

I have lost as much as I loved.

I insinuated you, opened every door

To my heart’s mansion

Opened up as you asked me to

But the cold wind blows

Even the fire has died

And there is no one here

To keep me warm

Let me shiver to death

Cursing the world.

Yet if you peered around the door

I would let you in

Dear god, how I would




But for now, this house needs boards nailed to the windows

And I shall become a ghost,

Lost to some other place

Than here




Take It To The Bank

Fuck drum circles and smug correspondents sat in studios,

Live feeds to pet congressmen and women

If you rob a bank

With a gun, you go to jail

If you rob a country

With a bank,

You get a knighthood

To go home to a house

Built upon the backs of the dispossessed

Neither right or left,

Because no one likes a thief

Unless he pays well.

Then we wonder

Where the apathetic look

Was borne in our children’s eyes

Smart enough

To know that the game was rigged

That the house

Always wins.