Untitled & Other Poems

By A.M. Hemingway.


Love, lust, jealousy

To me it’s just a dangerous cocktail

I can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’re

Serious, like a furious virus

Admire us for our disposition

The lack of suspicion

Is a social conditioning

A social positioning is far too

Risky, they frisk me to find something

Wrong within the system

I miss them like my hand is shaky

Maybe, just maybe my mind is

In finer bits and pieces

It’s facetious to think it could be

Put back together, in the nether

Regions of my flesh

I mix logic and natural human

Instinct, but I think this shit

Stinks of wants of my skin

Still I’m the sin of wanting happiness

I must confess I look for no less

But in the tragedy called life

Strife is commonplace


Then the beat the drops

Then the heat stops

Losing a tail

Like I was losing a bet

I get ten dollars every hour

Air my power

From the tower

I need a shower

To clean my dirty ass

I take two and pass

I take you to class

The masses talk throughout the lesson

Because I’m stressin’ over what won’t last

I cast a shade over the haters

Great debaters, debating the greats

I’m ignoring what it is she hates

And deplored over my mistakes

When I miss taking my medicine

Can’t recall, who is this my head is in?

My head is in all the way

Can’t say it was just the tip

Here’s a tip:

Take a dip on the wild side

Just ignore what it is in your child’s eye

I tell mild lies

But just when the going gets stuck

I clusterfuck a fucked up cluster

I muster up

All of these goddamn vultures

And sell your culture to you wholesale

When it’s time to set sail

I set the sale price $23.50

Maybe y’all ain’t wit me

Maybe y’all don’t get me

Maybe y’all just see me as a bee

Buzz buzz I’m annoying

I’m toying with you people

‘Cause socializing is feeble

I’m evil

Like a mad scientist


I’m fading away into an unknowable silence

Defiance seems to derail the misinformed

I missed the form stating I had to stand behind a dotted line

I’m standing in line, waiting for whoever it is to tell me when I can and can’t move

I can and can’t prove my innocence, as it does not exist

I am persistent in my insistence, though resistance has left nothing but battle scars

I’m in battle cars, battle tanks, fighting wars against my own self

Esteemed to be on such an intelligent team, made up of mes and no-one-elses

My guess is the same as everyone’s, I having fun at your expense

The suspense is killing, please just tell me the answer to my question

Here’s my confession to these murders, no those murders, yes the murders committed against my own flesh

And blood, I shrug, a simple motion, your notion is disgusting, I’m fussing with my inner child

Bastard won’t go to bed when I tell him to

I’m taking two bullets at a time, to my great displeasure

At any measure I’m fading fast, past the last stop towards sanity

Profanity is now my single language

I anguish over my failed disguise

These guys keep following me

Watching me

Hoping to steal an apple or two from my dollar tree

Stop drinking, I think; stop thinking, I blink

Now I’m twenty-three years wiser

Twenty-three years more tired

Hoping for the big sleep, though it never comes, and

Hoping for peace, limping out of the slums

Of a now fucked up genius

I’ll be the first to wean us off of the lies

I can’t keep up this disguise

The skies serve as the last tangible map

Of this inescapable trap


If I should write a poem for you

I’d do it with the knowledge of two

Two people in love, millions of

stars up above

All I can do is count what I don’t have

I can’t halve what you’ve got

But I take shots

To the gut, to the liver

To deliver sinister poison

These niggas

can’t hold me back

I’m stacking tangents and rants

Like Black ants

My Black aunt knows what love is

In the biz-iness of

spinnin’ us a new tale

A bedtime story to put us to sleep

at night

Don’t fight the negatives

The perspective is fleeting

and from this view, I’m cheating

Though I hope to cheat death

with every last

breathe, reeking of pistachios

I don’t do those

or these

or trees

or any of your misguided fees, charged to me because I’m


or maybe Hispanic at this point

I disappoint too many to be a leader

So I’m neither hero nor villain

I’m just chillin’

Killin’ in the boardroom

End scene


A.M. Hemingway broods and writes. His work has appeared hear, elsewhere, and in his head. His short story collection, A Ghost Hovers Where Time Shadows, both does and does not exist.


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