Alright so I promised Madison a poem.
First disclaimer is that I am NOT obsessively crushing on Madison, even though she is hot. Second disclaimer, I don't write happy shit. Sorry. Go to Hallmark.
Third disclaimer: I'm having to c-section this poem, the only thing I had was the first two lines, and now I've got a good title, and I've got a metaphor but no FUCKIN WORDS.
Fourth disclaimer: I just quoted an 80's band in the poem. This isn't some kind of major publication, so I'm leaving it up to you to find.
Oh and just because this poem is fighting me so hard, I will let you know that the first two lines came to me after watching video of Native Americans drinking Lysol on a reservation. I think poems should speak for themselves, but I'm having a time with this, so there, an explanation.
The Word in the Machine
Drinking Lysol by the campfire,
You know its love when your flesh just burns,
Cans explode, flesh cracks from the chemicals
No way to get clean
Even with the Lysol inside.
Shit talking out of disinfected mouth,
You know its love when your make up runs,
Fist fighting in the left over woods in the forgotten hills
I will never be clean again
No matter how much I drink.
Rusted junk over that hill,
The Feds don't come around here,
To the left over land or the forgotten hills,
You know its love when the blood runs hot,
The red blackens in the dirt,
The fire burns to embers inside the pit,
The People cry and wail
Over a can of Lysol,
And inside the orgasm machine's gears somewhere,
A Word is whispered,
And no one ever knew what it fucking means,
Or heard it least ways,
Over the sound of meat being ground into pulp.
Well its better than I expected after the third try. Have a nice day.
Tim.
First disclaimer is that I am NOT obsessively crushing on Madison, even though she is hot. Second disclaimer, I don't write happy shit. Sorry. Go to Hallmark.
Third disclaimer: I'm having to c-section this poem, the only thing I had was the first two lines, and now I've got a good title, and I've got a metaphor but no FUCKIN WORDS.
Fourth disclaimer: I just quoted an 80's band in the poem. This isn't some kind of major publication, so I'm leaving it up to you to find.
Oh and just because this poem is fighting me so hard, I will let you know that the first two lines came to me after watching video of Native Americans drinking Lysol on a reservation. I think poems should speak for themselves, but I'm having a time with this, so there, an explanation.
The Word in the Machine
Drinking Lysol by the campfire,
You know its love when your flesh just burns,
Cans explode, flesh cracks from the chemicals
No way to get clean
Even with the Lysol inside.
Shit talking out of disinfected mouth,
You know its love when your make up runs,
Fist fighting in the left over woods in the forgotten hills
I will never be clean again
No matter how much I drink.
Rusted junk over that hill,
The Feds don't come around here,
To the left over land or the forgotten hills,
You know its love when the blood runs hot,
The red blackens in the dirt,
The fire burns to embers inside the pit,
The People cry and wail
Over a can of Lysol,
And inside the orgasm machine's gears somewhere,
A Word is whispered,
And no one ever knew what it fucking means,
Or heard it least ways,
Over the sound of meat being ground into pulp.
Well its better than I expected after the third try. Have a nice day.
Tim.
I blame most of it on the need for a med change, which I'm going to get in the doctor's sweet time.
At least I'm writing.
How are you?
Tim.