Renton's Writing Receptacle

-markrentsboy

A prehistoric butterfly trapped in amber

- markrentsboy

Wish I knew a writer,

Or what that word meant.

Wished my work ethic tigher,

But gave up writing for Lent.

Well I tried writing,

Laptop mixed up oh's and ones.

The monitor weeped motor fluid,

And the battery died two.

-markrentsboy

The young man,

Or to be apt - an aged boy.

Smoked alone on his porch.

Planning on how he'd shake the world.

-markrentsboy

Woke in a sober house,

Sweat stain-soaked white sheets.

"One of those dreams" again,

Needle in my arm,

Needle broke before puncture.

Happens thrice a week,

I'd say pretty punctual.

Some social justice?

A young white male junkie.

Where's my social justice?

-markrentsboy

So many stuck in this final solution.

Liquid chemicals all mixed up,

So she booted up a final solution.

Gassing out smoked up brain cells,

Got reapers in the street making money off Hell's Bells.

Crack pulling their teeth out just like the Holocaust.

-markrentsboy

I’m getting treatment,

The late, night van playing a part.

I’m getting treatment,

My last pair of Vans are falling apart.

I’m getting treatment,

Heartstrings worn like these shoestrings.

I’m getting treatment,

Out of tune with just two of these strings.

I’m getting treatment,

Being asked to bring out the best in me.

I’m getting treatment?

Best I can do is bring the rest of me

-markrentsboy

Every nicotine puff,

Is a finger glowing timer,

A yellow kick-in-the-teeth reminder,

Of my slowly ticking mortality.

Unconciously or subconsciously.

But still I use this ashtray,

A chest plate glass tray,

To not further injure my chest.

-markrentsboy

"I couldn't find your number in the dateline,

So I dialed in that mainline -

A straight line to your heart.

But to you, that's the same line:

A Poision Tranquilizer Dart."

-markrentsboy

An activist, I still remember those days faintly. Being one of those pro-privacy, anti-government, anti-augment, anti-what-the-fuck-ever-else. Then they told me I could save my organization, that if I convinced them to come over they’d be lenient with me too. Fuck, about a quarter of them already did an Ancestry DNA test. So it didn’t even matter for almost a fourth of us! I thought I could save them! So I did it, I convinced almost half of them. They believed in me, and for what? We had a fighting chance too before I fucked it all up. It’s like that David Bowie song I barely remember: “The Man Who Sold the World”.

I snagged at the metal links soldered into my head with the tweezers. Blood down my neck, that noise of my flesh ripping from Human-playing-God fake idolatry. I almost got it… I almost got it…

The knocking woke me up. It wasn’t a neighborly knock, it was that very particular type of knock that crosses over into the threshold of accusative banging. The kind you can tell right away. I was passed out cold on the blood-soaked floor. The chip was lying right next to me, and I swear that the tweezers were wedged, lodged, or burned into the side of the square. That was how it stayed until I awoke. But it was dead, thank God that chip was dead. That’s all I aimed to do. To kill that parasite in the back of my head.

“The Great Society’s Honorable Police,” aka the Re-Education Committee, aka the Re-ed/Red Committee. Were kind enough to provide a pencil with this paper for “past cooperation” - sounded mocking the way they put it. I know this won’t get to you. I’m positive that it won’t. You left me the day I turned the movement right over into their hands. You were right, and I swear that I saw you once in awhile in these bleak, gray, streets constantly washed by synthetic drizzle. Gray, aimless, and with those dark eyes - I swore the life was siphoned from them. Please tell me they didn’t turn those entrancing deep-ocean blue irises into the whitish-blue that I think I saw, whitish-blue like the sky I cannot see through these thick, black, concrete walls. Please just tell me they didn’t take that beauty away from this world.

-markrentsboy

There’s a pool team there.

They stew in searing water, screaming,

Drowning in steam.

Water with consistency of Manhattan clam chowder,

Each one a faucet with fresh blood on tap.

The covered scars and cuts cover their neglect, but mapped.

One patient stole a Mauser,

Just to blow her skylight open during movie time.

She shut her projector off,

Missed the movie’s pay-off.

-markrentsboy

Stuck in a concrete cell,

Thoughts covered up like cellulite.

While nurses pounce with hypos full of pheno.

So, I’ll bring this hypothetical cell-to-light.

Barbiturates of baribtal cloud your mind - barring all.

In a sanitarium sanitizing my mind of sleaze? 

Nah, disease.

Dementia patients stare - lobotomy spots minus hair -

Bringing me unease.

-markrentsboy