This Is How The Poets Die. Unemployed And Teasing Lions.

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I have no pending quarrels.
The lions sleep like firecracker duds
Beneath my windowsill. I hear their meek roar
And the wind tickles caution tape
Outlining potential cadavers.

Yeah. I did the “walk-out” at work.

I have a pocketful of dreams
Burrowing deep, grasping at loose change
To suit my pens with armor,
But Byron died
Preparing the Greeks for rebellion.

That’s how most of us go,
The poets. Entranced by a thrill.

We’re a boisterous breed.
Obsessed with debauchery,
Cancer and heroin chic.

We never make it past 40,
Those who do
Write about flowers
Because the firecracker lions
Rotted
While waiting for a reason to leave.

The rest of us raise empty whiskey bottles
And toast to moonlight and poems
We’ve murdered,
We dangle the corpses above the lions
Watching them lick their chops
And we say,
Not today. No. This one is mine!”

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