I misspell finantial,

on purpose
who the fuck is
General Tso
they like his chicken
now strip mall domesticated
masses crave and always get
options
laced with mercury and
sometimes if they’re lucky
lies and lead
they sit lonely
under
values and hues
two
generic Hefty trash bags
midwestern serial killers
flies
and
mosquitoes
crave attention deficit disorders
and
fame,

some people
need Richard and attention
more than
others
red blots
and
red stripes
disseminate white paper
dinner conversations
with
Freud and Sun Tzu
blue metal cylinders
bow and reach for the sky
there is no god
there is no reason to capitalize
GOD
there is only barbeque sauce
Herpes simplex two
Coach purses
and Down Syndrome
we were all made in
HIS
image,

fluid filled proteins
released
plastic Gatorade bottles
littered on interstate road sides
recycled glue removal
the screams
dull
the stomach
churns
duct taped
eyes behind doors peer
at
decaying,

life, vomit and shit.

Brett Stout is a 33-year-old writer and artist. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He writes while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He published his first novel of prose and poetry entitled “Lab Rat Manifesto” in 2007.