Kristen de Kline #85 poetry, words & fucked up things

poetry has your number on speed dial
you’re never far away     a bullet speeds past, your name all over it
words are the only way to talk yourself out of the fucked up things that toss,
turn, throw you     to the ground     words are the only way to flee from the scene of the crime

she’d woken up with tears masking her face
was she crying in her sleep     or dribbling?
did the flow of saliva leak around her lips, like the wrong shade of lipstick, applied
badly     like an amateur?

back at Lawless the air is growing thinner, colder    the rain has started     it’s set in now
all sorts of fucked up things are twisting and shaking     breaking into song: White Trash anthems pumping out, angrily
you’re cycling     rapidly     talking-quickly-all-at-once not pausing for breath
you unscrew the license plates and carefully attach the new ones     the boys are using an old Jack they found in the deserted lot to suspend the Holden corpse      they’re taking the four wheels off rolling the tyres up and down the concrete hills in Lawless
the head boy is placing wooden blocks, precisely, deliberately, underneath the carcass of the car
where the tyres once     breathed     ticked, talked

all sorts of fucked up things     turn around     when you’re cycling  
rapidly     white-trash anthems boom out of allotments in Industrial Estates
lyrics criss-cross     with chattering sirens     are they on a TV show or is it for real     is there really no cure     pass me the screw-driver     is this it   I’ll make sure the new plates won’t     drop off     the edge

the Former People travelled by V-line then Metro to St Kilda, picked up their done, trained back again   nodding off in Carriage B     they pass you a bong made from a plastic drink bottles green garden hoses and gaffer tape     you hesitate, pass it back   we saw you on the ledge, he says, at Flagstaff     there were lots of cops, he says, lots of security runnin' around     it wasn't my finest hour, I say, well that's what the cop told me later ...

all sorts of fucked up things talk their way off the ledge pass on the homemade bongs listen to the white trash anthems you’re looking for bullets and words: you can’t find the right one you thought you heard some shots it could have been a car back-firing all sorts of fucked up things sit beside you on the ledge they don’t know what to say don’t need to say anything just sit there and chill don't say a word