Patches McMuffin: Viking Warlord

lingering outside

the Ram’s Head Tavern

in downtown Baltimore -

nocturne hours

beneath dulled florescence

highlighted by golden beams

projected from humming vehicles.

thumping of the concert hall

shockwaves through concrete

splinters, rivers on acid,

steady pump into my feet,

invasion of my brains.

shut my sheltered eyes

and wish upon some dying star

to grant entry behind the doors

and mosh until my teeth

are scattered on glassy floors.

I’m growing a beard

coupled with thick black glasses

and plaid skull caps

so that I can hang out

in underground cafes

while reading lethal doses of

Bukowski and Salanger,

thinking that I’m making a

difference

in the whole frappe mess of things.

Goddamn you, verse novel.

Stop that.

Sitting there and being unwritten.

Get wrote.

So I can retire early in southern Ireland.

And sip on Guinness from migrated coconuts.

Bastardbitchassfuck.

I’m a port poet.