Suffer Sweet, Dying Children; or On Dreams

Like Niagara Falls in winter, soiled in spit,

scum suck motherfuck, wales and whines,


a suffering so loud children lose sleep, may

I ask you: why this glum? Purposeful, rose


colored idiot, your sullen sapphire gleams

with contempt, disdain and stupidity, but I


stand alone, again, as always, ripping your

pictures up, stomping them into the ground


and swearing at the ghost in the room, you

asshole, you hated my hair, my life, zealous


and weak, you are a painting in the water,

a programming mistake, dotted with a line


of mismatched 1s and 0s, 11010000111000





and your eyes and lies, like a forked tongue

tripping and dripping with acid and spite,


a walk through the darkest sanctimonious

son of a bitch I have ever met, boot black,


but they are brown, and I wish for the day

I can forget, and move to the sky box, rapt


inside by the wonder of strength and caves

and pirate milk, in a gutter, surrounded by


wunderkind and kindred, a fasting flag of

rotten puke and scrambled eggs, why can’t


we get along? I’ll never ask again. You, I,

we can stand in the firing line, minus one.


If you enjoyed this and would like to support my poetry habit, please click here and pick up one of my chapbooks. Danke.


~ by Shawn M. Young on December 13, 2016.

One Response to “Suffer Sweet, Dying Children; or On Dreams”

  1. […] via Suffer Sweet, Dying Children; or On Dreams — eclecticismgunfight […]

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