Poetry

A Monopoly On the Truth

Well, I don’t speak French, I only speak the language of an ancient tribe known as Mind Your Fucking Business.

Poem by The Dimestore Casanova - jsonnenblick88@gmail.com Doodle by Maureen Keeney

Doodle ©Maureen Keeney

Sitting on the old boardwalk, near the sun there is nothing but a stale coffee regret,
and a hangover conundrum.
The soft sounds of someone that lives in the trees and forests over the dead.
Does an epitaph answer, “Who was he?”
The hands that never held the breeze are crawling up my jagged spine and asking questions in French.
Well, I don’t speak French, I only speak the language of an ancient tribe known as Mind Your Fucking Business.
Christ
The
Redeemer
Haunts
What
Sanity
I
Have
Left.
Ty Cobb knew the score even when he didn’t hit the ball.
Be more than what they think you are.
A hero is the greatest villain, because when it turns sour for them they are going to make it known throughout the world.
Hitler couldn’t paint, so he killed.
Manson couldn’t write a song, so he started a family.
Jim Jones couldn’t save humanity, so he destroyed a portion of it.
What problems are you holding onto that you can’t set free?
You can’t set free what problems you are holding onto.
Don’t talk to me about your dreams.
I
Just
Want
My
Steak
Done
Right
At
The
Sizzler
On
Metropolitan Avenue.

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