some of us are gonna be angry forever
some of us eat bread
and smoke cigarettes off the sidewalk

the gap between a piece of paper
and my mess is much further than it seems
(ironic considering my scrawl)

the spit of it is that closing
distance isn’t all it’s cracked up to be
for a few

you probably can’t write like jazz sounded

and you might not know all the words

you can’t breathe out a breath you didn’t take in

wilful destruction can leave a beach looking interesting

sand washes off feet and turns up in your pockets

disinterest should leave itself behind

you can’t write in exactly the voice

of the woman who delivers your mail

two sunsets doesn’t make a day

you probably got the rhythm wrong, somewhere

only you know how it sounded before it was on the page

it doesn’t sound like that anymore


with more words
there’s more to capture

more to slice sideways
sections of experience

with less language
there’s more pain

there’s always ways
the heart drains

the encapsulation
of everything

it’s just copying,
not original

but it’s not capturing
it’s devouring

it’s allowing things
to rush through you

with enough words
(or no words)

there’s movement
or amusement

I’ve Come For Your Teeth

if you’re using philosophy
i’ve come for your fucking teeth

if i’m angry then i’m angry
and no angling smile
can change that

if it’s dying then it’s dying
you can’t opt out
you can’t opt out


why don’t we see
it is wrong
to expect
from anyone

why don’t we see
it is right
to demand
from the state