Jeremiah Walton

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 31, 2013




Can anybody tell me why god won’t speak to me?
I’m on my knees
crucifying my pride regularly
I found the nails
rusting on the tracks.
where are you?
The freight trains are empty.
I thought you were inside,
a forty in each hand,
whining a cigarette in your hands
a cancerous violin bow
humming ideologies of desperate kids
You’re drinking compassion
and hopelessness
with no chaser
simply by taking up no space.
The animal of youth is dying,
Growing out
more than up.
Everyone reminisces
on the way they’ve
pissed down Time’s
and complain how
their life has amounted
to what they did not want.
Urine is more honest
than anything brutalized
by words.
A bitter old man
creeping along the caterpillar back
of early 20s
writes poems
damp but hungry
like wet candles.

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