in my throat
urgent profanity
my hands soaked with
imminent murder
in my chest
a blown up hammer
my feet itching to
run toward sea to cool me
to keep me from
ruining myself but
how can I live
with such feelings left unused
they are so
necessary to my blood
they set my blood singing
like nothing else
in this world that so often
elicits anger
anger is truth
to be lived
and when a sage
says otherwise
says anger is unnatural
understand
that sage is
a fool
who likely enjoys
a peace attained
by rolling over
and playing death
like some untuned harp
loosely twanging
anger being a key which
when turned adds tension
to such strings
as are needed to lend
a volume to songs
hymns to a longing
to shift ground underfoot
of those seeking
to turn this all to shit —
and so curses rise in me
and fingers curl
toward palms
and feet prepare
to lash out
because some songs
must be sung
in battle
if you want to stay alive
long enough to sing instead
someday a lullaby
Dark Matter 