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Jeremiah Walton

December 19, 2013

Get Me Outta Here


I am no exception to blood
I haven’t found anyone who is

Where are those mad to live?

I am being spoonfed the Eaters’ leftovers
Night is prison-poking holes in my throat
Snags clog the openings
with sound of Machinery.

Moonlight no longer comes in
Uvela burns out

A daisy’s lips are bruised by two lovers prying their faces together

I stabbed Gatsby to illustrate hopelessness, how hopeful!

Our poetic community is Chinese finger trap

Our intellectuals dissected
creatives are bees too
Frogs of the classroom
become flies of the world.

Our culture is composed of drunk 7 year olds given wrench and glue

Art is reverse aging, till miscarriage
stumbles in the room and kisses us,

the orphans of stars.

This matter of opinion is broken.
the decay of culture is just change,
a collective sneeze.

Egos are Tienanmen’s tanks
Buddhists trying to teach Buddha

The middle line is squiggly.

The American Dream is a cop story where the cop shot two black kids in spite,
and got away with it

I dug wounds hungry to be wounded and shoveled disgust in them

I wasn’t careful with my shovel,
or my dick.

This poem is venereal,
filthy, abandoned pregnant on a street corner.

This is another piece of art
that should be burned.

Jeremiah Walton graduated High School with the class of 2013, and began hitchhiking cross country the following Fall, hitting every open mic and slam along the way.  Jeremiah manages Nostrovia! Poetry, W.I.S.H. Publishing, The Traveling Poet, and works as an editor for NYC based independent UndergroundBooks.  You can follow his travels and poetry at his personal blog, Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.

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