One day soon

I’ll call and you won’t answer

Because you’re dead

Not a shocking dead but a just about time 

From another bad fall dead

You’re lucky to make it this far

 

It will be me someday too 

but that is irrelevant 

It’s you that matters 

as the phone rings 

And you don’t pick up
  Please pick up

Bull

Shit. That’s what it is.

I’m not falling for it.

You go swallow hatred

War. Fights. Fires. Torches

Go into the pit assholes.

Battle the flesh off of bone

Break your fists into brains

You dumb fucks. That fun for you?

That will please you, cunt?

Then take the shovel and start digging.

Go on, kill yourselves hateboys in the pit 
The rest of us, despite our differences are going

To keep living together in peace. 

Join us, if you can

Ha -as if

I would need

Sleep or friendship or touch or prosperity 

I need nothing but two pieces of gravel

But you -you are a needy little bitch

And you need to be hooked up to an oxygen tank

I feel you choke at night like a drowning puppy bucket log

You never learn.  I told you and told you

But you refuse to get checked out or change 

You are not a ditch weed. 

You need clean air and fresh water.

 You can’t live off exhaust fumes and oil spills and dead possum.  You are going to die.

  Wake up

  Wake the fuck up

I had a dream

Last night that you read my poems

And told me you forgot how good I was

It broke my heart and made me happy at the same time. In the dream I smiled and looked down. Henry told me that once too, not so long ago

I told him to go fuck himself 

Ok, I didn’t.  I nodded at him and said thank you
Blah blah ego. Blah.  But it would be nice if

It wasn’t so easy to forget myself

I don’t want to put you or Henry or the dogs first anymore.  I know I will – Damn tricky beasts of burdens

I’ll lose myself in the cello and play dough and drawing of evil cats and big smiles and stubborn mouths and piles of dirty clothes and demands for food stuffs and toys and damn stuff dropped all over the floor And I’ll  become the repetitive motions, human dredge. 
Sometimes though, you all disappear and I have a line or feeling that asks for purpose and I find myself again like now. Now I’ll make the fucking soup

Things That The Gods Don’t Want

Annieepoetry

I notice things that the Gods don’t

want me to and for that I am embarrassed. 

You have a wrinkle under your

eye that reaches inside to your brain

and coils down your nervous system

to your cherry painted toenails.

 

You are sensitive and walk with a pain

as old as hands and bent as an aborted fetus.

Breathe my lavender kiss, my lupine nectar

The monarchs in your eyes are sunbathing

Your wrist are budding peonies blossoms

but that damn wrinkle tells of heartache and death.

Stand still and I’ll cut it off, my little sister.  

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