The Mind is a hell of a drug

i was writing a paper in fml citations
of others words because it takes two to be a no one
what a steal
two books and three pens ago
two friends and three days ago i was just
producing bodies of work
pygmailiaon-esque sculptures of words that
vultures pry to pick at
sentences to try in open court
guilty till proven inspiration
-al, all you know is what i tell you like a poem
so on and so on i go like soon into a new self
we all die in a succession of selves, slaved to before as afters
as if from a time when man made clocks,
to where now clocks make men
you are not who you were a minute ago

i am not on the same level like story
tell me a tell all
draped up self pity and awareness
where are your friends to bail you out
of yourself
in a house you built out of your fathers remains
to remain in his thought forever
what a waste of history your endorphins have become
pay the top bill some mind
veto

my life will be the death of me
as theirs were
our rotting bodies form parties of political thought
poetry
that’s why
i don’t write poems with words or sounds
its just a bunch of obscene gestures with my tongue
i know my destination

with mortar speech i feel late on the metaphor
it hits you just the same
imprisoned
we all die in the end
ruined or not

the mind is a hell of a drug