A late night writing dump of Poetry. Still prepping for the rapidly approaching reading, and working on various projects. Life is taller than the Berlin wall, and twice as thick. I need a pick-ax that prevents sleep. 6/10/2012


This Website has now been armed. 5/15/2012



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Facebook: Farmer John Zanath


Night chill's a rising
Prize fighter, slow to
His feet, staggering,
Spotted with blue and
Black lights, gold-sided

Amphetamines crack
Through my teeth, grinding
and jaw clenched, waiting for
An alcohol haymaker

I regret you, not in
A spiteful way,
In a curdled-stomach
lining the gutter way

I miss what we were,
But that's buried
In some mass grave
Along my brainstem

I stutter-slur to the sky,
few stars, as many as
the reflections
in your mirror-eyes

But neither of us
Would change it,
A blade to our throats
Or otherwise

My heart's sick of
The war drums,
something I'd never
thought I'd say

I kissed those lips
That spoke out of turn
And with too much
strain and sulphur

I held that body
That suffered monster
Claws, viper gazes,
And a locust swarms

Now, I'm fingertips
on sick orange tables,
and smoke-prose
vibrating a
Mute tongue

I'm the soldier
You - an heiress to
The world, and our
memories are
bomb-making books
Set ablaze