Fed Up Fed Down

Someone blew-up the Kelly
Writers House. Words everywhere.
Those pretentious world weary
kids are really weary now.
Now they have something to
write about. Grab the helve
and cock the hammer.

Here comes the press-gang.
They spread out like radiolarians.
Poorish man-jacks.
What do they want with me?
Can't they see I'm behind my
cortex? Glottis spasm - no words?
I found a thousand-legger

in my new used book. You know the
one with the bloody ox-blood cover.
My shirt is on inside-out, Moppet,
my only child. Fuzzy.
The heat came through the
floor boards and into my nostrils
like worms.

Will the sun ever show it's face
again? Come out from behind
that fucking ceiling. That ceiling
of the damned.
The bloated damned with their
opinions. I wait like they do
for approval.

by Garrin Riggin