Call up your dead ones,
let ‘em know where they buried their bones,

shit isn’t meant to be,
just manifest what is into being,

muster up the strength to leave the apartment,
anxiety used to be hell without drugs,

now we’re walking clean, clean, clean and clean with meaning,

pretentious former addicts pissing off the weekend warrior drunks who want to piss the bed in peace.

All the apples of the family tree 
convinced they’re not as rotten as me,

drink yourself under the table
playing footsie with sobriety.

 ——-

Kevin R. Farrell, Jr. is a New York based artist, poet, and educator whose work has been published in Rumble Fish Quarterly, Adroit Journal, Terror House Magazine, Former People, Blakelight Magazine, Visitant Lit, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, Foxhole Magazine, and Yes, Poetry. His work attempts to capture life from the vantage point of someone in the backseat of a stolen car running on fumes. His poems are a play on words in the form of political, satirical, surrealist, tongue in cheek rants that often border on stream of consciousness ramblings that are a last ditch effort at taking it all in before we get taken out.

For more information regarding Kevin’s work please contact:

kfarrelljrart@gmail.com 
http://kfarrelljrart.wixsite.com/kfarrelljrart
http://instagram.com/k.farrell_jr
FB: @kfarrelljr_art
Twitter: @KFarrellJrArt
——-

Banner image by James Knight.

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