Death begets the daylight
as gas masks suffocate our breaths,
losing ourselves from
our own past.
Generations glisten with pride
about the suffrages put upon
its members like medals.
The horror show that is this generation,
changes what came before,
yet stays the same:
The same people hold picket signs,
The same people yell and scream,
The same people pull punches,
The same people walk in circles
sharing the demands
That won’t change a thing.
Only this time I’m watching
the revolution be televised on a five minute clip
while getting drunk and masturbating
to a girl fingering her clit.
Published in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Issue 12, June ’12 &
my poetry collection, Scribbling From a Beer-Stained Napkin: Find What You Love and Let it Kill You