bury me under the title

"taxidermy liberation"

wrench stems from between

eight cold knuckles

of two hateful hands

i am the sorrow of tomorrow

i am a backbone

you are a fence post

clue me in then tune me out

don't phase me through

your pretty schemes 

please get hip to the underwhelming

truth of my nature

i'm bored and reckless

i rip drawers out by the handles

this will pave the way

for the blonde-eyed and brave

to gallop at my inexposure

pull out in the final measure

let it all fall down the sides

like a dollarstore candlestick

your right hand trembles

in your back pocket the left

rubs at your dirty eyes

you filled the den with open

jars of vinegar and cried 

for two minutes on the carpet

there's no use in explaining

the patters which hatch

torrents of black waves over

our inner driveways the pain

of complacency salting

where calling 

once did sing in a packed and quiet room

were it that simple

my hands would show vital

not so workless

and so pale