Don’t lose your head without finding your words.

I want to write a poem, but I’m not sure if I really want to. Writing poems is a pretty cheesy thing to do, unless you’re one of those brilliant people like Ginsberg or Bukowski or Langston Hughes or whatever. Last time I wrote a decent poem, it was about a painfully sexy stripper from Nigeria who gave me a lap dance when I was too drunk on whiskey to even get a boner. Well, I haven’t been to any strip clubs in a long while. So what else do people like me write poems about? Fucked if I know. But I think I’m gonna try anyway. Or maybe NOT TRY would be a better way to go about it. Thanks, Yoda.

This one is called “Fucking in a Broom Closet,” I think it’s not going to have anything at all to do with fucking or brooms or closets. Except that, basically, all things relate back to fucking and brooms and closets. Whatever. Here is my shiity poem poem.

The lawn chair probably
represents the need to love
or the need to sleep/exist
The rest is obviously
all choking on freedom.

I killed an accountant once.
You thought it was hilarious.
I still love you for that.

The bare feet.
And what of it?
Stay close
keep your face
on the ground
scattterer.
Burier of feelings.

She is a fucking Saint
and I kill her too.
Constantly.

Sometimes, lately
I hate myself
For loving myself
so much.

This is the only thing
I have ever learned:

It is sometimes better
to travel hopefully
than to arrive.

And this is the only thing
that scares me:

The people that
I will never see again,
are always my favorite people.

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About R. Spacely

Bastard.
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