hellsforheroes

I spit this shit out day-in day-out...ten fold what gets to be read...who thinks I should do something with it.....if anyone...so yeah, I feel like a tongue depresser...this here piece is called, Langston Blues.



This maybe the last words uttered
I quit
Its okay
I dont even know myself

My father told me not to shit
Where I eat
Or
Piss in the cash register

I am sorry those are clichs
I am just trying to be honest
So here it goes
Fuck hope

Who writes to be famous?
I thought people wrote
To die
To excuse their soul from the proverbial diner table

Which proverb involves the dinner table?
My fathers
I forgot
To tell you I have killed my only shot at being

I used to be genius
I am just catching up now
You have no clue how my mind works
I obviously have no clue either

Explain the desire
The want
The burn
To make art

Or was it to sell my soul
For fame
Or an excuse
To be someone like a poet

I am thinking I am in love
With being a writer
I feel like a kid in a dream
Scoring goals in professional hockey never learning to skate

Ice is slippery
Treacherous
My father just fell recently
He sent his pinkie finger into his hand

The doctors pulled to no avail
And succeeded with Chinese finger cuffs
Gravity you old bitch
Didnt Albert name his dog gravity?

It sure pulls me down
Or is that my existence
Dimmed by lost poets pills
Wanting to be shotgun prophets

God save me
Maybe the west will
Like Wyatt Earp
And his OK Corral

Or send me back blind
Star struck of gold
Born of heartache
consciousness profound for ghosts

My dreams a boom town
Outlaws as holy parishioners
Stealing trains of magic dust
I, willing to buy the hefty blues

For Robert Johnson
As sympathy
Only to hand him his lunch
Soylent green hope for the devil to die

I guess, maybe
my soul as bleak
is sleeping away winter
hoping under furnace mystique