Minister Of Sinister

I wrote this poem about this weird guy that is staying with my religious culty landlords:

Minister of Sinister

I am a mentor

Touring to

Mentally help the meek

Downtrodden through bad deeds.

I am a mentor

Ordained to

Praise the six day work week while

Falling on Bible belt knees.

I spread the word with

An original sin-tainted tongue

I spread my seed

And carry a concealed handgun.

I am against a woman’s right for

Abhorrent abortions,

and I don’t pay taxes for drunks.

I travel with a tattered briefcase

And a rolled-up carpet in the trunk.

I am a mentor

Untormented

By fermented first-breath sin

I keep my hand in the collection tin.

I am the mentor,

Aforementioned.

And I despise science.

It’s so easy to sleep

When you don’t have a conscience.

Self Hatred Slumber Party

Can you fix yourself
Time's grip twists the shell.
Don't sell yourself short;
You've got a few good years left.
Well time it always
Reeks of theft.
Just a pump in there,
Some injections for rejections.
Did you not find love?
Do you hate the mirror?
Men love with their eyes -
Did you know?
And they come and go.
Plastic face to nix decay:
An avoidance of
Admitting your dismay.
And when your spirit died
Around twenty five
You wanted something more
Than this loathsome slumber.
Filters at an angle
Used to feign late summer.
Now there is no good side.
And the men they come and go
Talking of silicone and blow.
Oh, there is no good side.
No there is no good side.

Twenty Years

Portland poem.

Weird sadness, I’m on the cusp of crying

Sheer madness, in the dusk I’m dying

I sigh and drink the old corked wine of dusty cellars

I try to rework my mind’s path with fortune tellers.

And I walk myself down these filthy grit streets

Too broke to sigh and lay me down in pristine sheets.

I keep running from voices spitting rounds inside my head

Til I find churning despair, credit cards, and rotten dread.

I saw a homeless man at the back of a cafe line

In a woman’s hat shouting human extinction’s soon,

The police showed up and they slapped him with a fine

He laughed and told them “ignorance is our cocoon.”

He is more myself than I.

Where will I be in twenty years, an alleyway or grave?

How long can I deny I am my mind’s forgotten slave?