Hollow Points

He- talked about hollow points to a belly but the point was hollow to an empty stomach barely able to get up off the concrete I wonder if he knew what he implied when he spit you couldn’t mess with a sick ass ***** like that, cause he really had nothing left to lose and his shoe strings weren’t good enough for a noose just good enough to loop over a telephone wire because he couldn’t get his dad back from cancer after his chemo got canceled and he couldn’t get his sister back from the ambulance bench trying wrench bullets from her body with his eyes and he couldn’t wait to get back at them point his hollow shells at hollow shells and surprise himself grief stricken he felt sickened and they couldn’t mess with him anymore now that he’d made a mess of them,

Standing in the street screaming it’s just me against the world beating his chest with his furled fist as if his desire for vengeance justified the violence he bore against them and the bullets thats tore through flesh from hellfire felt descended from demons and eternal contention perpetually preventing the progress of a slum under assault and in need of defending, no arkham asylum for the joke of their lives the gentrified victims of viridian villians the lie was alive and living in a ghetto, we thought we could survive this environment… I lost my best friend to the wilds of west l.a. not hip-hop cause he thought what he knew was the truth and what he knew was that he couldn’t survive hanging alongside a mostly white kid who read too many books so he turned to the comfort of a collective invested in that gang bang culture, and as much as I missed listening to that literature ridden rap in the smoldering heat of his older brother’s back seat, it didn’t really surprise me,

Barely a year before he died, we met once more, he wore precious metal on his chest and he said he was trapped in a vicious cycle, with a smile on his face, we retraced the old days, somewhere along the line he knew he’d misplaced his identity and became the enemy he thought to slay when we were younger, it didn’t really surprise him,

I told him I knew the feeling, however fleeting our meeting we met with sincerity, a stereotype of a black and white friendship, a parody of  televised inner city kids and their tragic lives and I remember thinking it was funny how even though we’d grown in different directions we’d both been affected by deception. I didn’t attend his funeral, only felt his mother’s agony over the telephone wire, she said in the end an entire city of angels couldn’t save him, and I thought, after all I guess his new chain was finally something good enough to hang from.

You’re so fucking great.

Baby, you’re like tuberculosis. Acid coughing cold sweats and an infectious frown you fucking make me sick, literally. Pretty lady you’re like night terrors, like a lot of bad habits biting down all at once and I’ve got anything but sympathy for your plights, please pull your tongue to the roof of your mouth and snarl your sickness like a dying battle cry. I don’t give a shit, something hardens in the heart after the disease you impart, pick your pills and tonic from a basket, build your bed with those broken lungs, all I see when we sleep is a cradling contagion. Your teeth are a graveyard, eating corpses next to the maggots and gluttons, crawling fat between ribs and slivered muscles, I don’t know the difference.

Gorgeous you’re like putrid, pushing clouds of cotton phlegm from a factory of roiling stomach fluids, you’re like organ failure and a necessity for blood transfusions, you’re like the waning stench clumped between old recliners at a plasma donation center, fuck… you’re like… you’re like… fuck you.