Robert Plath

the root

world weary 

in the womb 

& yanked 

from that 

bastard canal 

w/ bloody 

infant digits

i flipped off 

the stars 

for giving 

me up 

 ______________________

poetry 

 

getting down 

the darkest ones 

is like hooking 

a hammer claw 

under the nails 

of yr own 

goddamn coffin 

& tearing up 

the splintering lid 

& then setting 

the fucker on fire 

 

_____________________
a sighting

the 
only 
angel’s 
wings 
i
ever 
saw 
were 
stitched 
& black 
w/ a 
long 
zipper 
the 
length 
of 
a
man 

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