Brett Stout
Pink paper and black ink,
I confess all to you,
revolutionary instruments of
war and sound
sit outside my door
acoustic
not
electric
the year 1965
chromed savage hands
scalp and remove
dead skin cells and cerebellums
as sadistic
bugs gossip on my broken TV,
white paper and black ink,
I confess you,
cheap bent notebooks
bind and record
the insanity of it all
and her
soiled by the coastal water’s edge
now rotting inside of a cluttered
bedroom drawer
no
air freshener
or bleach
is getting rid of that pungent
smell though,
yellow paper and black ink,
I confess you,
gas station receipts and
the violated messages
unreturned and
setting ablaze
the wooden floors
of ghetto apartments
and lonely penitentiaries
fingers as volcanic ash
979 numbers typed
left
and
right
landscape and horizontal
she blocked my number
last week
but I keep dialing it
anyways,
a farewell to hope
and bon voyage to all dignity.
XXX