The crown
Gaslit amerikans made to feel weary
UK feeling the same kind of pain
born of revolutionary notions along blood
soaked cerebral highways
old concepts
within a different window of time
clinging to the evolutionary ways of
ancient psychopaths
celebrate
the family
who slaughtered
everyone else
give them precious jewels
a fancy chair
adoration
let them dole out
selective charity
sound familiar coming from across the
pond?
Fuck the coronation
Fuck the inauguration
of decaying narcissistic machinations
kissing the ring of compartmentalized
rights
bread and circus
worship the bloated
the bejewelled
the master class
faces marked by stagnant rot
vintage poison
scarlet dreams
fogging the mind of a self-defeatist myth
you need us
no, we don’t
fuck the coronation
feed the poor
before world’s end
burn this entire system down
apocalyptic desire
marks your ultimate end
Social distortion
My friend shakes my hand while pissing on
my leg, 20 years of running off with over a thousand borrowed dollars- talking
shit right in front of me at a record store reading
“I used to be somebody”
You’re not
Anymore
the talent you had
wasted
knocking up strippers in a single bound
punching parking meters
after dark
rattling door knobs
it’s all you got
my ex girlfriend kissing my cheek while
going to the gym and bar without me delivering a thousand solid excuses, won’t
let me end it with her-drags it along another 63 days trying to be a ghost with
a lack of haunt held up against a metaphorical confessional
“I’ve been dating someone else for a
while, we have a deeper connection”
Intimacy wise
Doesn’t work out
Calling me 4am drunk
something about miserable without me
just another empty narc
afraid to take a leap of faith
chasing steroid gym-rat dreams
until one almost killed her
goes back for more
my old man dying inside since my mom died,
killing himself to live in the adversity of being a cancer-prancer- thinks he
might have to get a dishwashing job if they stop sending out social security
checks- I see our minds have switched places where one goes for solace when I had none
sleeping under over-passes
but it’s okay
now…
all of you have your own distortions to
contend with
entangled barbed-wire lamentations
social fabric
phantom thread
venom structure
unweave the bright coloured spectacle
societal gaslighting
you can do anything
think positive
Train of thought
(dedicated to Ana Lept)
god is rainbow
fading ever so slightly
barely dazzling bright futures
chasing into forever despair with no pot
of gold in sight
QUEENS BOUND
M TRAIN
there’s no royalty here
but peasant passengers sifting through
shit and slime just to breathe enough in order to abstain from suicidal
tendencies
wayward immortal soldier hops on
kicks off his boots
meticulously rolls a blunt
pays no mind
blessing in annihilation
leave him alone
he’s scared
nah…
just exhausted by paradise lost divine
comedy bullshit
latter stages of eradication
worn out by fear
destination
unknown
radical acceptance
your fate
yearning to deviate from the reaper’s
sickle
hope eternal
in the midst
of manufactured sunshine
“STAND CLEAR OF CLOSING DOORS”
Dreaming blue
Much like a Lynch film, it’s where one
belongs to die awakening into a surrealistic existence more real than real
reality bitten
orange car crashes don’t bleed into the
mind anymore via new york pop-art mafia overlords
Warhol can go home with his diary of “a”
War-holes
god shaped with dead photos stray images
booze pills and whatever else you want to fill it with
the cum of strangers in a darkened room
meditating over records that’s kind of blue
can’t let this dream end
star struck sky
even if it’s just a black cloth with light
bulbs alone leave the razorblades in your suitcase the cosmos need be left
alone to breathe sunset and exhale divine nocturnal drives in our blue sedan
not feeling quite all that blue
nearing the precipice of something kind of
blue
in your blue shirt
do you have blue eyes upon a midnight
clearly?
Something said
Possibly
Unwarranted
she takes her shirt off
anger frustration
whatever
a streak of blue light
in the darkest night
it’s 3:48am.
And I’m blue
sullen hearted
at the dream of you
this dream not transpiring with you
not continuing this dream
blue note
two hours of sleep
in two days
grey skies
looking blue
would flip the blues man a quarter if I
could but instead on the corner I hand a joint and cup of coffee
perhaps not as blue
as before
Peninsula Gardens
In Peninsula Gardens
we hang
by a thread
something fierce
razoring away
a cutting wind
in Peninsula Gardens
we eat
the ass
of Chinese cross-dressers and the pussies
of speed-balling strippers turned clumsy bartenders with the same zeal as holy
fascists bombing abortion clinics
kicking the homeless
in the teeth
amen
in Peninsula Gardens
at the centre of it all
west michigan
is the bible-belt
of the north
in Peninsula Gardens
we sell legal weed
but pull you over
soon as we can
for making your own choices
praising
the jingoistic meek
giving
a free pass
to the drinking class
right
left
centre
all
authoritarian
Mike Zone is the former Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press and managing editor of Concrete Mist Press.
The author of Screaming in the End: Poems and Stories, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind and Razorville.
A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press
and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock
Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir
Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture magazine.
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