A Poem for Interesting Times
Chris By-The-Throat 2012
A burial shroud of fog blankets my city
my red wood forests
my gulf stream waters.
Propaganda corpse dick blocks my tonsils,
gagging, choking, no daddy I'm not hungry,
silences my screaming so I can't say what it tastes like.
My hands are both broken but I clutch at the wheel.
Bitch ex wife cut my brake line,
now I'm dancing Tueller with a brick wall and I can't even clear leather.
They stomp on my enemies and I laugh while we plummet
two fat slug-bodies wrapped up in stars and stripes
careening towards the same pavement and comparing cockmeat.
Better men than me baked this apple pie
worse men than me have fucked it and shot their load
but I have to eat it anyway-free range, low carb, fair traded ass to mouth.
Left hand jerk me off, right hand fist my asshole-
everything's different, god bless democracy, goddamn this dick tastes like shi-