havoc.
We're tired of these punks wreaking havoc in our streets.
I am hanging by my fangs on the edge of a third world window.
I hold on to what's left of my fingernails as an act of resistance.
There are spots of my verbal vomit drying in the moonlight.
My brain feels porous and repetitive: riot riot riot riot.
I'm floating like in a Russian rave, very drowned from so much gaslighting.
My knees have green and purple ink bruises.
Scars that tell stories of confusion and poorly chewed trauma.
The pop version of anarchy is sitting in A*NGR & poisoning myself with an animal cold brew.
Let the snout of opulence bite my jugular & injustice bleed me.
Because my sentences are already running short and my memory is very sore.
It rises from the flesh, privilege like a pang that gets in the way.
A restlessness that burns like arsenic in the neurons.
It is a direct light that dissolves my pupils in a tub full of tartar.
Talking about boundaries from the ditch is like spitting out organs one by one.
It's ripping the scabs off your chest, swallowing glass and leaving it in your throat.
My final act of anarchism will be to skin myself & hang that flag with my skin on the door of capitalism.
