by Atti?
-conjunction ripe with verbose poets
at the tip of every would be ink dipped
feather light
brick,
that lifts his neck
with the sexual dialect of third person
narrative-
disillusion:
the gift of flight for featherless
rejects,
that don’t even carry the pens
they’ve been said to scribble
the drunken rants of starving artists
across the sunsets with;
you were really a paper tiger all along
-siberian adjective draped in the nouns
that slid down the soggy cheeks
of opaque pages written in past lives
through tears by better name:
alcohol;
and as those stripes wash away
from the tiger’s back,
his noun held hostage by slang
triggers
fired like broken bones
at sticks and stones shaped like denial,
his beloved labels race against
running finish lines
as they melt away before every finally stride
-and that final mark of identity
fades into new age jabber,
and he can’t tell if its positive or not to be left
a plain old, ordinary,
pussy.
run, run on kitty catastrophe
-the denumonte is just around the margin,
before the indentation
that makes these writer’s blocks less than perfect,
despite thier beautiful structures
that are metaphormed with the source
of your stumbling paws.
keep running paper tiger..
keep chasing the foot note
as the fingers of bitter creators
pinch awake
every dream you could ever have
to make their own-
thier, there, here, i
am so sorry paper tiger-
this story has grown boring;
better yet than happy,
is the death of a hero for an ending-
keep fighting for your write to live
and i’ll write every twisted turn
that you think you’ve earned
below that wasted piece of paper you call home.
art is the red root of death
that fed the leaves that turned into your roof
before the fibers of your very being
bound into a noose,
that dangled your life story
off the limbs of a rotting poet tree
before your eyes stared into my bark,
waiting for a heart in the crooked eye of conclusion…
sorry paper tiger-
i’m great with words,
but better with lines.
the end.
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