Fresh Pressed Paper

I write poetry

while singing songs for people

who write postcards

for the dead.

Maybe this is confusing.

I write poetry

while masturbating for those

who lost their nerve

during the first Covid War.

Maybe this is confusing.

I write obituaries

for the enemies

who tried caging me

for not engaging

in the insanity of the cult

you got sucked into.

Maybe this is confusing.

I write as though life depends

on a full-swivel observation

of society hung at half-mast.

Degenerate wretches,

basket case.

Political imbeciles

whipping themselves into frenzy.

Maybe this is confusing.

I write poetry

because it's the only buffer

between you & me,

and this blank sheet

of fresh pressed paper.