Our Guy

Forged a storm 
out of an old scrap heap;
rode it to ruin.

Gave a nod
to where we’d been,
then left it scorched.

Didn’t stop.  Didn’t pause.
Did not give the smallest shit
for any of it.

Sat alone at night in a bare room.
Reeled gangster movies out,
regurgitated them worse,

called them scriptural;
in fact, worshipped them
then deified himself in their light.

If there was a moment
when he reckoned himself wrong,
had a doubt, a fear of failure,

he turned in in upon itself
and consumed it like a meal
before it could fester.

Grew fat with
contradiction. One day,
blew up.

Splattered
everywhere
with all there was inside him

now smearing us.
So ugly, so fetid.
So familiar — so like

what we’d always
perfumed away, painted
over, pretended was

an offer
we had
always refused.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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