If Reality

If reality
Fixed as the 
Tip of this
Poet's pen
Then I could see to it
Whole realities
Extinguished like
the moth hearted squints of
That flicker on
Thin candle wicks,
Quenching their thirst for life
That the apostle john
Wrote his epistle
On 4:14
Bubbling from the bloody
Ball point pen
And writ on the sinuous
Curves of the vixen who drifts
The from victims she creates
In broken bars
And damned dives. 
Mother Earth 
You wretched whore-
Father Time
You son of a bitch-
You've done this to me.
You have me on the Medusa,
The Titanic,
Before the gripping tides of
You pull me down into
The deepest and darkest
Wearing a skull cap
Gas mask
Fighting mustard gas 
And chlorine
For a single gulp
Of fresh air
Drowning in dirt
And murdered in mirth
That was the beer halls 
Before the bullets
Took forth flight on winds of change
Shooting poor
To live here amongst the 
Squaller and the decaying filth.
Bukowski had a point
That stabbed 
The bleeding heart
Of the romantics
And smothered the peace
An quiet on the home front
All because he knew better
Than most poets
Who wanna preach love
And salvation
Instead of the molestation
Of the churches damnation
And it's darkest decent
From the morals and the virtues
It tries to uphold.
But this house of cards is falling
Stumbling, fumbling
And dropping the ball
As millions of football fans
Crave brutality and confrontation
In local and state wide teams.
They know not that the huddles
Aren't really on the field
But instead in conference rooms
And mansions
Practicing plays to hustle the money
Into their own private
Singular goals.
And finally
When it's all said and done
And we have only one way out
Loaded into the chamber
Of a
44. Caliber brain surgery
We look out
At a nation
And pull the trigger
On a nuclear winter
Where the deserts
Aren't made of stone and sand
But instead
Of the ashes of those
Doomed to the presidential pyres
Of a generation
This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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