on the sunrise riot in my front yard

hang on.

there is an unholy congregation

outside my house.

i can see them through the window

with their knives and teeth and words

and i am naked and hung over

with just a few minutes left until

sunrise.

they want blood, they say,

and they spit on the grass

and roll in the puddle,

and it cleans them up

a bit.

were there ever real men

and women out there?

anyone to clean the house

and drive the economy

and keep the clouds in the sky?

"BONES!"

the crowd cries.

"BONES AND BLOOD!"

they bang and ram their bodies against

the unlocked front door

and ring the doorbell

and i just sit on my bed upstairs

smoking

because peace is peace

war is war

and now is the time for the

latter

but no one will have it;

instead they cut their spouses into pieces

and mail the lungs and heart to

god's p.o. box

and the scalp and intestines to

my welcome mat

but now they are stomping on the

goods,

stomping on the goods

stomping on the goods

and it is all mush now,

and suddenly the day begins

with a yawn and a curse

and i need another

cigarette.

Author's Note

I didn't edit this one, so it's still in its raw form.

Reviews

[Aleyah]

This is awesome. Honestly, I love your creativity, and...just the way you describe things in general in ulterior ways, e.g., instead of saying that these people are mad and disgusting, you say, "and they spit on the grass, and roll in the puddle, and it cleans them up a bit."

[Kenneth The Poet]

So London's burning, and they want God's head on a platter. Subtle.

I like it.