Contributor: Mike Roach
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I went to minister to the slaves in the hills of Percocet
The angel slayers with $7 tongues
Swallowing formaldehyde cigarettes in a valiant failure to spare their lungs
The silent cold has settled into my aching bones
The candles have melted away with my soul
And if they want me dead, I'll die a king's death
They'll have to take my head
Or wait patiently for me to lose it on my own
Rip out my heart and take it to the scrap yard for whatever they can get
Leave the shell at the landfill and try to forget
Draw my blood like wine into bottles and let it ferment
Save the sadness, let it ruin in the rain and turn to regret
Vinegar on my brain for the maggots in my head
Eating away all the dead flesh
And if they never want me to take another breath
I'll quietly die a poet's death
All alone with my notebooks and my pride
All sewn together with foolish prayers
And in Christmas lights mummified
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I'm Mike Roach and I write poems. I am a Zen Buddhist and father from Memphis, TN. I enjoy seething and ripping off Bob Dylan, Jack Kerouac, Quentin Tarantino, Arthur Rimbaud, and Allen Ginsberg.
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