Jagged Thought #126: Alarm The Aching Ears of The Alliterate


 

8:11 am
Saturday

My eyes are red.
Shelled and disheveled.
Smelly on my belly.
Television speller.
Can’t spell Addiction without ADD.
S.a.d are you – a disorder for socially anxious
People in the basement?
People wondering where the peace went?
How the pace of this world
got too fast for them?
Teething on the pen, running menace
on the microphone
listening to the silence of a
Saturday morning.
Waking up yawning.
Not happy where I’m going.
Drinking dirty water
and pains in my abdomen,
could be cancer, probably is
so might as well try
quitting cigarettes.
Should probably start writing for hours, if this is all life is.
while time fast forwards
like wilting flowers.
Like if my sad addiction
didn’t rhyme with medication
Then we both might not not not go nowhere
rock the radio station.
In a flooded basement
with snakes that bite.
With Biters that write.
Those with untied microphone cables
Rhyming to save us.
Na, enslave us.
Take us away aliens
Teach us and prove it.
That the reason we are here
You have something to do with.
You probe us
And take samples of our skin
cause we must be worth something,
Not just something to do
on your universes weekend.
My universal weakness
is rhyming for tweakers,
distorted speakers
throwing signs in the air
with broken fingers.
Putting dot dot dots
In sentences
To keep you in past tense waiting for the end of this,
a resolution
With the pen an Oddball show with a top 10 list.
A popper sells for ten,
pills that
numb you.
I give you pop poems about pills for free,
Lucky you!
Put a beat through each syllable
Verse and constant consonant.
And alarm the aching ears of the alliterate.
Let the mental masturbation
mean something,
coming with severed synapses,
firing with
friendly fire.
Meds
off the shelf.
MantheStorm
At the dMv,
Licensed to ill
Speaking Beastie.
Behind each sonnet,
No Meter Teacher,
No Double-Helix-gun-slinger
Writing at dawn
With an itchy trigger finger.
Go figure.
Go forward.
Go backward
Go toward.
Shine the mirror in the sky,
Blind our eyes,
Fourth-scorched-earth,
murder-in-disguise.
cursed since birth.
Man the storm at
A yard sale
Selling cd’s and books?
Got a gym set?
My mind is distracted
yeah I’ll buy your Kandinsky egg.
I’ll buy your old magazines
Do you want mine?
selling digital copies
For free-ninety-nine.
Empty bottles and dragon-breath-city.
A game of operation,
And not with all the pieces?
How glorious!
I’m still buying.
I think I am dying.
Bury me with that
Mouse Trap and cardigan
And I’ll show you
A good time at my mass
And cantation.
Drinks and libations
my funeral is gonna be a party y’all!
Oddball gone
But not forgotten
Bury me with the disco ball.
The good go get
And the bad got got
Eyes blood shot
8:11 in the morning.

 

Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.

 

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