the ugliness of telephone poles

a goddamned sunset or a fat frickin’ chipmunk
I dunno, whatever. it’s all too stupid-cute for me
i want the sick scent of antifreeze and rotting olives
the feel of rusty razor and baby kitten stew under
my bleeding toes while I scream for some ugly chick
to come out of the alley and make me feel
something twisted and broken like a taffy-pulled
body from twisted steel before it became a junkyard wreck
i want the truth – if there is such a thing as that -
God in the agony, God in the irony, God in the shards
of broken glass, where everything I love became
… God
I don’t know
anything at all.