Wednesday, May 28, 2014


I'm watching my Hour Glass
surface resembles New York pavement
like sand threw my fingers across the room

Zombie hand 
tossed with
bloody baseball 
stealing batter's teeth,
depositing them
into little red purse
containing brown pearls 
and slaughter prayers.

We'll wire wrap necklaces
with baby teeth
and copper. 

We'll sell them on street corners
watching prostitutes duck in motels.

Watching young gang bangers 
seeking fangs for their knuckles
stab each other 
over whose color
is of rainbow. 

Traveling kids and 
train hoppers 
spange for 
space bags. 

Anarchists print zines 
to defend Love. 

Love is my market. 

Those Gatsby abandoned to necrophilia. 

Upper Class nymphos fuck each other like wallets are love poems. 

When I dream of the future
I see an empty fridge.

When I dream of the future
I see holes. 

When I dream of the future
I see question marks.

When I dream of the future
I see wet notebooks, 
melting poems. 

When I dream of the future
I see dreaming of a future.

Hour Glass finishes tocking.
Nails begin ticking 
casket closed
and all that's left
is a bunch of first person poems 
and bleeding chapbooks 
dripping everywhere
but where blood is needed.

Author bio: 

Jeremiah Walton graduated High School spring of 2013, and hit the road hitchhiking the following fall.  He's since found himself trapped in a black hole called Erie.  Jeremiah manages Nostrovia! Poetry, W.I.S.H. Publishing, The Traveling Poet, and works as an editor for UndergroundBooks.

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