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some nights my soul becomes rigid,
staring blankly at the walls,
the paper, the pen in my hands,
like a revolver, one of the older
models. i used to be a killer,
a murderer, but now with the
gun in my hands, i’m trembling,
too scared to pull the trigger.
what if it misfires?
what if i am no longer strong enough?
do i sit here and feel remorse
for the poems i’ve written?
cemented to this
chair while outside
i can hear sirens.
my muse is being stabbed
to death in one of the
back alleys of this dying city.
she’s stumbling out of
bars, slurring my words,
they fail to impress me any more.
i should
let it rot
and fester until
some other poor soul finds it’s corpse and tries to
raise it from the dead, dance with it
like a mannequin wearing
thrift store clothing
until someone is gullible enough
to believe that deep down,
at the very heart of it all,
underneath the whiskey breath,
the veneer of nicotine stained lungs,
the barely legible signature of a junkie,
that this is really art
and the only reason
we’re starving is because
i spent all my time gambling away my good fortune
when i should have been out at the market,
buying your love.

pay no mind to the burning
tanks in the intersections,
their symbolism is only aware
too fools and lovers of
fine excuses.

pay no mind to the music,
it’s just punk rock
to and for the masses
like my words are for public consumption.
please buy in
so i can cash out.
preferably with a pension, benefits
and a ’79 buick century i can drive into the gaping maw of the sun.

– r.f.g


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