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

 white-stand-blog

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.
Reaching,
I flatter the window gate
and shake it.
New York is Jack’s bean stalk,
and my picture.

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