This is not a night for sleep,
This is a night for rebellion,
no toxic city grace halls
shall light
on the dollar
shall wring our treat true.
Another page, turned and torn.
A fragment of it’s former thought
and in complete rhyme.
Destined be the word,
The sentence and line,
sweet language.
Ah, language,
sweet language.
Said in the timing of the well fed moment
or the bohemian god-awful truth
of endless irony so cliche
its a paradox and and echo.
An echo,
An echo of an
ill sought cam girl
tortured for a dirty tampon.
Pursuit in a monkey suit
dancing for another dollar
like a good wannabe Kimye nothing
willful illiteracy!
It is a plaque and I
am the fire.
Fuel me with off
set pain’s intrusions
I am not bothered.
Pain once begot
muse
and more fuel!
Spite for where none is due
Debated whether or not
Cannot and shall not
for that which is spoken
is here to say “fie” on
you and your stream of
heavy shallow dreams exploits
and intellectualisms invented
to bring more of defined
undefineds, lost, suppressed,
and surpassed with no
knowledge of end and
stale form.
No end to bitter mirrors hypocritical crack,
long ugly and weighed down
by karma as all in knowledge or
no.
Ignore tempting thoughts
of self murder.
It is only but another page in your book.
Yes, a mantra,
just another page.
September, 2014
James J Jackson 