I'm bald and have piss-yellow teeth; don't use balm or whiteners to appear young again.
Every scar is a jagged path to a novella called living.
Cursed and blessed with a good heart,
Wild horse temperament that's bucked most riders off.
Loyal to the few who've stuck it out,
through all the ups and downs.
I could blow out of here at any time
, but for now everything's just fine.
I've crash-landed on a cay of calm.
Quite proud that I've made it this far.
More than halfway to a hell, oft mistaken as a star,
At times slipping into the murky waters of mundane,
Just another battered face rooting through a discount bin.
Always on the fringe of a spinning tassel of contentment.
Everywhere there are mounds of glitter glued to plastic bags.
Covering up the dry rot-I've no interest in any of that.
Shocking I can pull it together at a funeral, but not when I'm putting down a pet-
I want to be a whirling dust devil outside this hollow town.
Not inside the plastic masks of all the dead-hearted clowns.
. (A GROSS POEM ABOUT TOOTHBRUSHES AND WHITENERS)
W* T*** R** WHITE TEETH THE ROMAN WAY. THEY HAD BRUSHES MADE FROM BONES.
H * E* T* O*W WORSE THAN THAT IS A FACT LITTLE KNOWN THEIR WHITENER WAS URINE.
I * E* H* M*A * urine. Yuck
T* T* E* A*Y * urine. Yuck
E* H*** N** * urine. Yuck
Whitener was urine. Yuck!!!!
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