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Columbine Gangster (poem)

Tatoo tears, tatoo scars to fill that glasgow smile,
blood red shapeless abstracts stained onto your cheeks,
I’ve imprinted my madness onto your face,
& I’ll finish this piece off,
with a nice hat, with a knife placed in the top,
when you walk you’ll hold up your limp with a baseball bat,
on your chest an Anarchy tat, ready to attack,
eye lids painted black, dark glasses hide that
& they hide an even darker stare,
the kind that goes with clenched fists
& hard breathes beating the air,

you’re a columbine gangster, a trench coat mafioso,
the cigar bobs up & down,
danglin out your mouth, lit up all proud,
but whats the celebration?
sat on somebodies grave stone,
pourin out whiskey from your flask,
outside the cemetary you see your enemies walk past,
cyder bottles in hand, destination wasted,
but whats the celebration?

your a columbine gangster, the misfit mafia,
infested with meds, journal entries,
holes in your head, & Jack Daniels,
your a gone too far punk attitude,
a crowd of middle fingers raised like picket signs,
screaming Fuck You,
your Holden Caufields hate for all thats fake,
& this genertions Kurt Cobain,
all wrapped warm in a live grenade,

in the war room bullies beat poets half to death,
& watch them jump from tables into the nooses grip,
the corridors are hunted with giggles,
from when their fear of you,
was gulped down & turned inside out,
because you are the death of high school,
your a worlds end, conclusive with a god knows when,
your powerful suggestion,
the final push needed on the backs of walking death,
your the death tolls high rise,
your the columbine gangster,
with your Holden Caufield consiglierie,
& the crowbar outlaw as your partner in crime,

happy fucking new year, have another good one,
you’ll start this year with a vengance,
holding a polished shotgun,
21 shots you shoot, your own kind of gun salute,
lost verses from the dead poet that I am are quoted by you,
after you shot me, standing there wearing a black mac & a smile,
still you won’t find sympathy held in there dying eyes,
hanging gracefully from my lips is my last cigarette,
no last words instead just long smoky breathes,
you stare into my dying eyes trapped,
as if my thoughts reached out & grabbed,
putting your whiskey flask in my left hand,
& you put a gun in the other,
making me look like the other:

perpitrator,
columbine gangster…
…the friend that you loved enough to pull a shooting with,

I gave you so much help, I gave you so much help,
when writings that note to self,
that just said & simply read -
HOMICIDE SUICIDE
HOMICIDE SUICIDE,
underneathe you wrote the date & time,
you scripted the tragedy that was the end of your life,
but for others knowings about you, this was the first time,
I guess the madness of mine,
that I imprinted on your face reflects back on me,
with my tear riddled puffy eyes,
& the blood around my mouth,
as I swallow my heart for your amusement,

31.dec/o9

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this is the last poem I wrote for the not yet existant yet book Scum-Rose… I wanted it to end with a bang, I don’t really plan out any plot to my poetry , with this one there’s an subconsious Frankenstein influence like I was killed by a “monster” or “madness” that I created.

Comments

  • Adam Marlow
    Adam Marlowalmost 5 years ago

    Powerful stuff….. superb!

  • Trenchtownrock
    Trenchtownrockalmost 5 years ago

    This is pure fire..I wanted a beat to rock out to this..well done on a strong topic..

  • freesoup
    freesoupalmost 5 years ago

    very film cinematic images.. raw lines.

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