by Craig Scott
I am an old man reading his
newspaper.
I am a surgeon with broken
hands.
I am your son shouting hate
at an aslant pencil.
I am notes about nothing written
on scraps of dirty paper.
I am the lights going out.
I am the hungry mongrel dog in the
street.
I am the lonely air waiting to
be breathed.
I am to blame.
I’m sorry.
Showing posts with label Craig Scott. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Craig Scott. Show all posts
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
THE FUTURE
by Craig Scott
He dyes his hair to look like a soccer ball.
His mother has a new boyfriend.
They leave him home alone most weekends.
He starts fires.
Your daughter let him put it in her mouth.
He downloads all the porn his young wrists
can handle.
It’s not fair that things don’t always
go his way.
He wishes someone would give him 10 billion $.
He burps & farts as loudly as he can
in the library.
He doesn’t care about the future.
He is the future.
He dyes his hair to look like a soccer ball.
His mother has a new boyfriend.
They leave him home alone most weekends.
He starts fires.
Your daughter let him put it in her mouth.
He downloads all the porn his young wrists
can handle.
It’s not fair that things don’t always
go his way.
He wishes someone would give him 10 billion $.
He burps & farts as loudly as he can
in the library.
He doesn’t care about the future.
He is the future.
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