To Whom It Concerns Poem by Cody Davis

I hate everything you've done.
Meticulous thinking has achieved
A greater discontent.

Fuck you and your silent movies.
Fuck you and your pacing.
Fuck you and the things you do
when doors are closed.
Fucking prick.

I've held your pulse in my hand.
I've charred the blue in your eyes.
I've stitched lips and crossed hearts.
Fucking prick.

I hope you know I'm talking who I am talking to.
I hope you know who I am looking at.
I hope and aspire for an afternoon of clarity,
and bloodshed,
and freedom from
my slumbering tyrant.
But not in that order.

Die! Die! Die!

When will you step forth?
When will the blood on your hands match
the rose on your cheeks?

Scornful boy.
Jealous man.
Wild beast.

Flail your arms so restlessly.
Articulate concupiscence.

Unrequited love
and years of irony,
cliche` months,
and more love bestowed.

Until teeth are clean,
orifices are air tight,
and your burden is lessened,
wait not for clairvoyance.

Meet me at 12p.m.

You con artist.
Sell your lies to lives,
living your lap of luxury.
Sucking the tit.
Fucking the whore.

Flail your arms so restlessly,
Fucking Prick.

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