Frustration breeding
over looking back.
Took a second look and suffered whiplash
through the window
systematic hard-drive crash.

Brain didn’t have the patience
Clock didn’t have the time
Pocket didn’t have cash
Pen didn’t have the rhyme.
Dot didn’t have the dash

Covert communication
A build-up to a stand-down,
toward a cess pool splash.
Fiending for an ointment for the rash.
and a reassignment to the front lines of the boundries of my own mind
and physical station in the life.
The corresponding strife and stress.
Ripped up naked body with water cleansing before dress.
Into battle: the daily, bloody, hot mess.
Scared and scarey.

A virus came through the wires.
They thought it died, but it multiplied.
Stuck residing in the rut
no theatre-in-the-round
no cigarette smoking hot butt.
Her skull might’ve been pulled through her veins
my muse always turns out to be turning tricks in a game.
It’s a circular sickness,
so I aim to write to no angel, but a faceless, fall-from-grace glitch
in the matrix.
She’ll be proud of tattooed tits, and rusty-gear sharp wits.
Her dirty one-liners will be so clean-cut, nuts will bleed.
After she speaks, bolts of your verse will conceed to not being tight enough.
I’m a tin man, getting drunk off a pint of bubbling hot oil lust.
Curse of past and present allow me no rest.
We’re flesh to dust, at best.

– MIKE PHELAN O’TOOLE

C. 2010. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.