OMG SHELBY
Omg rachel?
Swastika
Shaved, and skinny, shivering stands
A pale skinned wrench in this machine
The living dead on knees and hands
All those with traits to intervene
The man from East, just shy six heads
Of sending this race up in flames
He settled for the Jews instead
His followers know many names
Conformity which tried its best
To individuals consume
Hush now, or you’ll be with the rest
Locked thick inside that breathless room
May those who kill efficiently
Pay for their sins eternally
It is the look that follows
It is the look that stays
THE LOOK
The look I say!
The stares which steep like stairs
Down the west wing below your shoulder blade
To the center of your hatred
Which is actually a library where Fear sleeps under a table
THE LOOK
It soaks your paper heart With kerosene
It is the antithesis of your own suicide
Portrayed through membranes of stained glass and little red veins
THE LOOK
It makes you wish you were invisible,
That when you dined only floating little plates and spoons could be seen
It makes you want to gouge out all their eyeballs
And take them home
And keep them,
In little glass jars on the mantelpiece
Like olives
Shitty Poetry
If only the great writers, now dead and gone,
Had a hotline service you could call them on
To discuss your innumerous problems.
They seem so well-to-know
Mankind and his every woe;
It must be nice, you figure, to chat them up on the phone.
“Oh Salinger,” perhaps you’d say,
“did I have such an awful day!
The world is such a dreadful place and really I am alone.”
And Salinger, for his reply,
Could quote from Catcher in the Rhye,
And you would feel at ease to think that minds could work in pairs.
To read a book, and understand
And think, how wonderful, how grand
It would be for the words to say back to you:
“I know you do. I know you do. I’m written here to be with you.”
