The Masochist by Scott Thomas Outlar

Your One Phone Call

Exorcising demons –
they fly out
in a whirlwind,
left and right,
front and center,
here and then gone
in the blink of an eye.
Swoosh –
like a ghost of vapor
leaving no trail behind;
every poem that pours out
murders another one.
Things I’ve done –
Things I’ve said –
Things of the past
now buried there
in a shallow grave
dug with ink and paper.
Who needs a shrink
when you’ve got the flow
of the mad word
coming from your pen
at Mach 5
whenever the urge arrives?
Why would I pay
someone to listen to my shit
when I can get paid
to have other people read it?
Fuck, I’ve found the fountain
that springs eternal.
The chaos I’ve been through
is an endless stream
that never stops.
A violent piss
that never completely
clears out the liver.
A broken heart
that will never mend.

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