Punk Rock, Beer, & Boobs by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

I hear
These singers
I have loved most
Of my life
Sounding
So old

As if
They’re dying
Doing the very thing
That has kept them
So alive

They can’t escape
The grim reaper rattling
Voodoo dolls
Inside their throats

And I just stopped
In the middle
Of this poem

To eat a piece
Of fried chicken
And fix a vodka rocks

But
Will it happen to me?

Despite
My work rambling
On paper
And telepathically
Offered
Forward

Will
My words turn
Garbled
Like a shrunken head
Fighting
For clarity
With sown-shut lips?

What if
I don’t want to write
About

Punk rock, beer, & boobs
Anymore?

Yeah,
Good luck with that.

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