Poetry 37 - Edgy First Sonnet Back

Rustic writing, off quiet vacation -
Writing sonnets, still a pain in the ass.
Like literary asphyxiation.
Fuck, man, I gotta pick up some more grass.

Nah, I'm not really a burnout just yet,
but I can't say I don't know any though.

If you came here for art,
you should be disappointed.

Poetry 36 - The Violin

Shaven wood.
Polished wood.
Colored wood.
Acoustics
of wood.

I quit.
It's a violin,
polished to a sleek,
dark brown texture -

Darting sound,
with a charming balance
between violent and silent.

The state of sophistication,
the smooth placement,
eloquent bow.

The bow -
reeking of rampant,
gentle progression.

I wonder if it tastes as good as it sounds...

Poetry 35 - Analogical Ladder

Writing sucks - no
It is cruel.

“It’s getting something off your chest,”
except it stays.
It is
the bitter cranberry juice stain on a white dress.

Nothing removes, rather
writing wiggles the dagger inside.

Grooving,
it doubles as a ladder.

Blood spurts, then climbs
the analogical ladder,
to leap from the roof
to the paper.

Wounds remain,
after forceful claws to communicate.

A hostage situation -
waterboard me ‘til I speak.
I’ll cough it all up,
and I’ll feel it shoot.

“Poetic,” projectile vomit.
More stains.

Poetry 34 - The First Caucus

Iowa is today:
Compton vs. the Sandwich.
I'm feeling hungry.