The Addicts Don’t Disgust Me; Humanity Does

Rachel Finch/Bruised But Not Broken

Bruised But Not Broken

Even the heathens used to suck on their mamas titty..

There was a time the addicts cried for milk and that was enough..

Those babies grew with Love in their hearts and still the world beat them down..

People, beat them down.

I’ve watched everyone i’ve ever loved reach out for comfort. I’ve watched them all reach for a damn fix too.

But I don’t get mad.

You know why I don’t get mad?

Because the baby crying for a bottle still hides inside.

Because those babies grew into children, suffered at the hands of men claiming to be human and they’ve been gagging on trauma ever since.

But no one’s there to pat their backs.. Couldn’t soothe the colic, can’t help heave the vomit.

There is no support system.

Just little girls hiding behind big tits and long eyelashes, painting smiles onto their faces, as if foundation hides the…

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Out of Time

Max Meunier/Dissociative Void

Max or Not

shards of sanity
scattered intermittently
across the glass-like surface

shades of unfamiliarity
fade into permanence

the strangest of our thoughts
condemned to feeling

only the past
remains unchanged

perhaps
it is inconsequential

as words are

as they ever were

stinging our jaded eyes

with the distortions of our dreams

forever dangling
out of reach
and out of time

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Glue, it’s the social illusion

Mick Hugh/Mick’s Neon Fog

Mick's Neon Fog

They took us out to green pastures when we were young. Gentle folds of fragrant earth open to us, long warm roads winding to focal points beneath the horizon; wheat fields expansive. Open. Blue skies and the right to die beneath a willow with no one’s name. The dark mysteries of night and the thousand specks that beckoned us to the vast possibilities of life, out here in the frontier land. Textbooks’ covered wagons and dreams imprinted on pupils. Let the pupae bloom their wings. Scythes in our left hands, pens in our right. Honesty: what the mighty fought and died for. Tunes of freedom on the nightly news, red white and blue over the colonies and the untamed West and the Cadillac coupes that flew the ‘50s birds from their nests and the conservative… They pointed at green pastures when we were young. Danced naked unabashed, told us it…

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A Call For Revolution

Kindra M. Austin

I was born a breeze, blue sharp

and breaking Sunday glassware–

social refinement

is over-rated

when innocent blood is spilled

in the name of Peace.

What peace? Fundraisers are crooks.

Uppity mother fuckers

dress up in laurels.

It’s the regular people

who give an actual fuck.

When will real America embrace the fact that we outnumber our politicians? 

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