A post-mortem abortion of the word
thanks to the creations teenage angst sent me,
but it’s still there and I’m over twenty.
The funk is in the dysfunction, and they send me plenty.
So let’s cut a rug
trip on the construction of a line, like a drug.
Cocaine and slime.
A beer’s condensation and your condescension.
I love the tension in trying not to mention
the truth.
Brain chemicals leak.
Despair over hair, and the spine, exposed with a tear
of the scar, and on-line.
4 years old, and now twenty four.
No car, so can’t jimmy out the door.
Fuck, can we?
The girls stand next to me, drink too much,
hit the floor.
Ambitions shrink to the size of a pour,
acne-riddled future complexion
from the curved direction of a camera whore.

I am a piece of spray-painted wood.
Some arted-up alien boy, talking, walking…
Shocked to find the days turn into the daze
Busting my brain against the edge of a circular phase,
filled with weak catch-phrases.
Patch on the eye, with ear-gauges?
Another original?
Sheep eating undercooked meat,
and cows grazing.
For this, I go to trial, onstage.
I suffer the bile and climb the cage.

Going to slash the gist of my written statement, & literally bleed on
pavement, as a fresh page.
I move like a stoned nomad in a wrecked maze
Keep telling yourself that it’s just a phase
maybe he’s not lazy /
just strange / he /
complains about the pain
how if you cut him off, his heart leaks and bleeds,
and where there’s hunger, there’s a need to feed /
so he’s just like the snake eating his own tale.
Cutting off nose to spite face
to wish ill will,
it’s disgrace.
Brave lwaste.
Don’t panic, eat an Attivan.
Bitch ‘n’ Ramones,
beat on the brat again.

Written by MIKE PHELAN O’TOOLE

COPYRIGHT 2011. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

http://www.MikeOToole.net
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