sick of looking for answers


Sick of Looking for Answers

A late
supper is
better than
no supper.


Random sex is
better than
no supper.


Anxiety whets
the appetite
for things
too awkward
to swallow.


It’s a
culinary world,
a digestive
tract with
no exit.


Things backlog.


The word
becomes flesh
out pop
the cannibals.


I wish
I had
more respect.


For the
tribe of
my elders.


For the
melting pot
that we
stew in.


For slow


I tap
on the
skulls of
the dead.


The grime-
hand of
the trickster,
flashing cards
drenched in

Leave a Comment

Filed under poems & short jabs

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.