Waste Not, Want Not

Every step is a death march
to the black grave
where the worms wait
to kiss my tongue
in romantic interludes
 
Every gesture is a wasted effort
for the righteous flesh
which has no soul
sold out on Sunday
when the choir commences weeping
 
Every prayer is a spitfire
from the toxic lips
spiked with venom’s piss
to quench a state of apathy
while the angels do a dance of decimation

Yes, I do grow tired. Sometimes weary. No, it doesn’t matter. I’m never going to stop.
 
My journey in publishing poetry began last year at Dissident Voice when Angie Tibbs accepted “Three Part Harmony” to appear on the social justice newsletter’s poetry page. I’ve been publishing a piece there each week ever since that time. To go along with the recent release of my new chapbook “Songs of a Dissident” Angie was kind enough to ask me a few questions in an interview that is out now. Anyone interested in reading more about the chapbook and how the project came about can do so here:
 
 
Hell, this week’s poem at DV “The Coming Cull (Engineered Chaos)” will be out in a matter of hours at this point. I’m in one hell of a foul mood right now. Honestly, it very rarely happens at this point in my life so I thought I’d try to capture a bit of the angst with the poem and post you’re currently treading through. Things have actually been going really well lately. I just refuse to hide from negative emotions, so here they are vomited forth. Lovely, eh? The bottom line is this: I’m never going to be satisfied. That’s what keeps me going. The existential tug toward that which can never truly be obtained. So it goes…
 
Selah,
Scott Thomas Outlar
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