Day 3

Two Thirty I wake in a state, night or day,

how long did I stay.

A sleep, to keep from dealing with a reality, of past crumpled love s.o.s, light housed, ignored, racism.

Fetishising urine stained chasm, deep in the bowel of the back fridge where the body is kept, while I slept, on it.

Spit in the grave where old election signs are, driving to carry a pigeon.

Midget’s of digits of, my saintly self inflicted on side with gawd to eliminate, and gestate the great white horse of burden.

Call me a virgin was your first mistake, wake to the cross on your chest stolen from pagan giraffe's lost on the Sahara, eating samosas and spray painting graffiti, fifty cent,  spent his last mercy on a wave of one second of fame.

You said you loved be before you kissed me goodbye.

Tie my hands and feet with miles of viscera, a plethora of mistakes, half truth and lines about this and that. 

Bat me like a mouse, of course I believed in you, and you love, of making everything a scenic night mare on the plains of a mustangs flank.

The thunder in is in the ground, lost spirits found, unearthed by greed, heel to toe, you throw money.

Funny you face when we said no, the thunder is in the sound of the ground, rancor and a brass saxophone attached a lie detector.

It bleeps and beeps, red light on the high lighted treaties and and unpaid poison meat, called small pox.

Box me in with your society, is not my priority.

Hear the thunder in the ground, the sound of a freight train of living flesh, on this land, bodily memories on my  pock mark face, 

you gave me, sitting on a corner, watching traffic go by listening to the hum of the white, breasted burdening this land, think it can hand out.

Pit bulls and bull dogs, frogs and log out weight your fate with what you call demarcated, welfare for the rich which is a line of powder, on table.

Whip them with a cable, for not pick the cotton, not lost on the memories fresh dripping of fat from the grills of a Donald. Walk, don’t talk your tongue hanging out of paranoia, dependent bullies, hurry to rationalize and infantilize how right the white shit of cloth and cross can be, when used as a tool for brain bashing the mass on Sunday.

Gossip, blue azz better know and Jazz, came down to brown, wearing it like crown, of thorns in my side the civilized ghetto you call justice.

Fair trade me as a slave across the border line to endure while you dine, in posh real-estate, that hates to look at the cool red. Day of the dead, fed most of the fears you hear about me, washing your dishes, while the thunder in the ground is a sound, to be foundations of human rights, museums.

Mediums between the right and left, a cleft food, tripping over curbs side executives, selling me to highest bidder. 

Impunity, to murder my solar system of life and death, within this community you think only belongs to humanity.

Am I not a woman.

Civilized and despise your dreams, yellow bass, swimming upstream, to spawn, the dawn of the end when you came a cross the water, to halter the wild horse called institutionalized education.

Get em’ ready to give you all of bacon.

Feel lots, and crackpots cull the 649, new buildings and out dated text books.

Look critical thinking is sinking the polls, control, antihistamines and amphetamine sulphate, anesthetize corporate sponsored lobbing on lying.

Dead in a ditch, the woman was called a witch.

Open pit a lime in the face of Albert broken nose and hand cuffed sovereignty.

Cream in my coffee, sugar in my donation to the hear and stroke foundational lies in what’s good for you, cause you like convenience.

Grievances against your waisted life, behind bars drinking vodka, and beers, the moose swears to the left and turns into a truck.

I forgot to duck. 

She turns to me and screams,

she has no time for me.

Crushed in the side of her head, grey spongy, thought float by in prophylactic, synaptic,

systematic of static.

Binding my tits, into bits of sexualized appateasers served up tight on, hambos, better known as bimbos.

Screaming demons, on rubber wheels, feel me up, in the back of the car.

May take me far in the justice system, don’t choke on the throaty cat calls, down the halls the school of high fives n’ balls.

Beet juices on wall street, heating up sweet green rice paper, ya can’t eat.

Sipping on Vyacheslav Molotov’s cocktails, watching the budget burn.

Turn n’ walk away n’ pray they’re not here to say a martial shall be law forgiven citizen.

Television, fox is on the run in prime time.

I wake in state of cold sweat, shivering, and shimmering in the dark.

Have gold bees stung my left eye, yellow sun honey, sticks the walls with flavor.

Save your self tamed mug of spiked high heeled shoes.

Rolling to my side the check the time.

It’s noon.

I’ve lost my silver spoon, should get up for work.

My job is a jerking my stride, clumsy ballerina spinning circles in a fantasy world, of art.

What a fucking tart.

Get up n’ shut up.

Face the facts, this aint no acting on an impulse.

Dulse in my sushi, the cat in the hat, yawns and spawns,

Scorn for the turds in the box, she cocks her paw on the pot.

Half burn spliff on the side of the bed table, inside a wooden cradle.