Quiet Nights

last night i pounded nails through my penis.
the blood and banana mush mixed together
like a bleeding pussy sick from too much drinking.
it was hard to position the banana just so
that my penis was able to lay on top of it
before the nails went through,
but I did it, and the squishing sound was glorious!
It had been too quiet for a Friday night;
there were no murders, robberies or fights…
i found my hammer and hit hard
at the desolation of outsider-ism,
where the screams of men are black
and we all agree there was no slavery here
so we go back to our fine fine coffees:
the anticipation was this existence,
waiting for the muted revolution of dreams
to come like heidi off the hill sides
and into our cramped living spaces,
filled with doors and walls.
the silent screams each night
i hear as i walk the strassen –
I screamed them out loud last night
with all my windows open.
I know their insanity, and I know it’s cure –
and I assure you, silence is not it.
But neither is the discussion
until we stumble home vomiting