I’m a rare coated stag. Gut shot for sport and
forgotten in a field of
The hunt is over, the storm is here. Beauty
all sheathed inside a gun barrel…
I think I’m dead now. I need a new scene.
I’m the out of tune keys on a piano, that
some rusted god keeps playing before he
heads off to a bookstore
where he constantly asks,
“Got any remedial shit with no substance?”
“Yeah. Check any shelf” the faceless
pseudo-librarian says back.
And the more he reads and the more he reads and
the more and more…
it’s just more hope he loses;
arms just getting tired of holding pages
cliché poems and redundant stories.
(Have I read this before?)
“But really? You cut down a tree for this shit?”
It had more real poetry beforehand.
Now the rusted god goes to sleep and
now I am the rusted god.
And the only thing either of us still hopes for
is that if I publish a book it never comes here.
Not to visit.
Not to fuck.
And especially not to die.
Tucked away behind some shit book
about learning to love yourself I find
Nick Cave’s “Sick Bag Song”…
Now that’s a god damn jewel!
[Nathan McCool is the dark lord over on Instagram at God Of Dregs.]