I Was Dead When I Woke Up This Morning

Play. Don’t do right.

Tactics, rules, retaliate,

deductions and make heard.

Make it heard.

 

Once, spirit was a thing,

Coco Pop real

and I cherished skin tags

like design label lipstick.

 

Now, teams are numbers’ games

and I add up better than Duffy,

any of those super-good

word-people.

 

Because 5 is better than 4

and 4 is better than 3

and, target, I eliminate you

when you’re 15, 5 or 50.

 

Mess with me, fuck, I’ll

obliterate you

and discerning language

about you winning. Chance.

 

You’ll never fucking win this

You’ll never fucking win with me here

and it’s the good of somebody

at the stake. At stake.

 

The mistake I make

is taking advice

from someone’s authority

and again. I do it.

 

What I didn’t want:

impressionable knowing

rejection’s a package deal

in this life.

 

But they know it now.

There’s no saving. Not. Just

retaliational penalties and

“I’m glad you didn’t win.”

 

I’m glad you didn’t win.

Advertisements

Before The Day Is Done

Sacrifice, I learnt it, right before Communion, other people’s, and I envied white dresses, and bridal doesn’t mean what it means, and I won’t wrap myself up as an offering, and this is me backtracking Hail Mary. This is rewriting prayers. Rewritten regularly anyway, enough, archaic versions stick and I can’t eliminate thou and thee and thine but you’re gone. I close the plane door on it.

20120612-122147.jpg