Monarch of the Insecure and Hopeless

I wasn’t thinking about pictures
back crushing cans
into the smallest surfaces possible
I was watching for gold
in the gravel.

I wanted to melt it down
and dip my teeth in it.
Taste some metal that is soft enough
to chew through.

I wanted to kill cops
and all their undeserved authority
and navy blue retardation
while driving fast to catch others
driving fast so as to tell them not to.

I wanted to solve all my problems
with violence and the escalation
of everything uncomfortable.
No I will not talk quieter,
but I will unravel your
endless yards of guts
if you keep asking.

I lived with a fast food understanding
of sex and intimacy
and they always made me
pay for it regardless.

My phone conversations consisted of
the words “what” and “okay”
almost exclusively,
and every drug you could get
a deal on that week was what I
was up to.

I was mad for no reason as a baseline
enforcing imaginary rules
no one agreed to such as;
get the fuck away from me
or do not fucking talk to me.

If I sensed something was not
about me or what I wanted wasn’t
headed my direction
I would make it known by
twisting someone’s finger
from its socket.

None of this aggression won me friends
or even any kind of credit.
Nobody feared me and I lost
almost half the fights I started
but I never stopped
and wore down all the edges
in my area of influence
until the whole world
had to deal with me
on my terms.

All the consequences
never caught me seriously.
I just get phone calls now
for things I haven’t paid
and am not going to.

My one and only therapy session
was eventually sent to collections
where the fuck heads all molest themselves
to interest rates. It’s in good company
along with my overdue library books
and personal loans I wasted
on miniature warships.

I can’t remember my family
because my final fights
with them were so far back
they’re like a sun stained photograph
recovered from the corner of an attic
where the window light breaks through.

I pull the legs off wolf spiders
and stare at them
but still they somehow
will not go away.

I haven’t laughed at anything in decades
and take small jokes as attacks
and always hit back in the most
physical of ways.

This hatred is my art,
and on the days when I am uninvolved
I pass the time by drinking
in the parking lots of retail stores
where I unleash it on the the public.

When I am finally forced to leave
I kill what’s left inside the bottle
and destroy it in the street
then walk away. To them the day
is just a space where they can
earn their pay, and zone out until it’s over,
but as for me it is a miracle
made brighter by the fires of my anger.

I gotta go now
I just have to go
I’m sorry.