#dan copeland

i heard there's a man who lives upstairs heard he's a real asshole, a real shitty dad i heard there's a man who lives upstairs claims he loves his sons but he constantly punishes em fuck you and your carnival tricks i will not follow in the footsteps of the foolish i will not worship the words of the treacherous i will not bow to any idol or monument every king must be dethroned and every mystic burned i heard theres a man who lives upstairs says he's got all the answers but he's always testing us i heard there's a man who lives upstairs who leaves his children unattended in a garden full of snakes fucking asshole, shitty dad how could you demand their faithful prayers, but then never answer them? how could you take yr servants cities, how could you take their sons? pied piper, playing judge with his shit eating grin I will not live in trembling fear of yr wicked wraths well I'm ready for you, for whatever plagues you bring I double dog dare you, come and bring the flood

City of children, city of freaks, bred into a time of easy accessibility.

Beep goes the microwave, noodles and water turned into a substantial meal for a toddler.

And with it goes brains and inhibition nuked into soup.

Walking the walks of life--in an overwhelmed stupor, becoming assembled into a product of products.

A gathering of children privileged to live in a time where monsters are always within fingertips, whispering secrets and advertisements in baby talk.

Cartoons and coloring books drop in stocks, all such nonsense seems sub par to what the talking telle is selling, so we sucked those thumbs and signed the contracts.

Small silly putty minds learning to walk in a bucket of shrapnel.

The trash of one thousand men is another generation’s treasure.

A shotgun blast of genre, taste, an overdose of culture, influence.

And so it’s spoken, the poor man finds more understanding in dirt than the child with everything finds in anything.

Take, eat, buy, own.

Morality, individuality, uniqueness, understanding, all such thought drips with the ink from the rain soaked pages they were written on and fall diluted and secondary onto the chewed gum ridden streets outside of every mall.

Digest the meal given to you, don’t even stop to question the recipe.

forgive me father

for i am criminal

I am thief

i am heathen

i have committed sodomy

spread poison into the streets

lied to the honest

hurt the weak

inflicted wounds too deep to heal

put my hands in the wrong places and my fists in the wrong faces

father

hell awaits the men with my fate, those who die how they lived

reckless, cruel, alone and in pain

like a wounded dog

staggering a lonely waltz to its final resting place

a dark and dank crawl space beneath a dilapidated broken home on the wrong side of town

father

forgive me

i am the broken plates on the kitchen floor of every home with a history of domestic violence

i am the last wicked words ever shouted between two disgruntled lovers

i am the trigger on the half cocked handgun against every suicidal kids head

i am the one mistake that tortures you into cold sweats every night that you'd give anything to take back

father

i am the skeleton in your closet

the monkey on your back

the last straw

the hit that puts you over the line

the drink that takes your insides to the toilet

father

i am your taker, your maker

your sinner, your saint

your judas, your jesus

i am the crucifier, the crucified and the crucifix

the wicked, the weak

the monster, the child

the son

the son...

the father...

the father...

father

forgive

forgive me

i forgive

father

forgive

forgive

forgive

father...

I wake up

To a cracked sky and a dying earth

It bellows out with misery

And the dogs whimper out for sympathy

But when I sleep

It all seems fine

In my sleep

In my sleep

It feels like we are finally all awake

But when the moon sips it last drink

And the sun wakes up to cuddle close to the clouds

My eyes burn

From the smoke of my fellow man

And my nose scratches

Because something is cooking in the kitchen

But we’re all too tired to recognize the taste

But when I sleep

It all seems fine

In my sleep

In my sleep

It feels like we are finally all awake

I wake up

To bodies aching like

Busted pick up trucks on cinder blocks

And fingers blistered and boiling

But when I sleep

It all seems fine

In my sleep

In my sleep

It feels like we are finally all awake

Oh the gravestones

Cut so delicately

Now rusted and rotting

It’s hard to notice the inscription

“There was something cooking in the kitchen

But we were too tired to recognize the taste”

dont think i dont love you all

i wrote something today

rough draft