“Shut up Vicious,” poem published by the Savannah College of Art and Design


The birds live in confinement,
sleeping on each other’s feathers
like drugged cows.
Only my hand’s shadow
is prescient of God.
They tilt their heads,
as I eat seed,
and grease my hair back.
I am Mad Max of breaking delusions.
I can walk inside these walls forever
and never miss the sun.
Last night
my roommate complained
to me,
she assumed.
I was bored with her suicide note,
a broken wheel with spokes,
hope stitching a backward stitch.
I said,
“I pray it works ut with your boyfriend who beats you.”
She said,
“So do I.”
The toilet is a hideaway
to appreciate one’s cheeks,
but mine have disavowed society.
I flatter the window gate
and shake it.
New York is Jack’s bean stalk,
and my picture.

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