Windmill

Another poem exploring the social ideology pertaining to adolescence.

My wax heart

On a splint, dubbed spliff,

Trying to c**k itself out from

Ill whimpers and places.

How many more can I do

Without regard? 

How many more ill whimpers

Can I guffaw from my jaw --

                                      I can do no more. 

I am all burnt out on match-stick knees,

The cosmos elbow me out of my

Sound purgatory, waxed-out Still, Stealth. 

I will O my way from one destination to the next

And each will be the bored chord, 

Stuck in my throat, contorted into a cry

That will rise before it is stamped out 

The lost lost lost

Of us will throat a reply before

The pitying stares and pious glares

And linger into the dead room for all of ever.