The Escape Artist

Landlords and managers
In charge of weighing the worth
Of those without mass
Little napoleons with nowhere left to conquer
Buy land. Property. Domain. Old buildings
Vacant lots, pissing contests, council meetings
Judges, vacations, coke and hookers
Some men self appoint themselves king
They’re mostly found in places that ticks like
Sweaty cracks and crotches
Embedded in the most vulnerable
Their ugsome, cacky company
Make even whores feel dirty
Doesn’t matter who is steering the titanic
When the whole ocean is for sale

The Hindenburg is perpetually going down
Its blowhole hissing burning hydrogen
Like a beached blue whale in the velvet sky
The defeated flight crew’s talk at work
Sound like sailors without hope
At least it’s Friday and it’s only Monday
Parasitic bosses living off their hosts
And landlords squeezing out the blood
From slave waging calloused turnips

Fawn eyed creatures
Like me have no chance
My ocean targeted. Dredged
Every sea dollar spent
My hiding spots albescent
Snowing and pregnant with plastic
I hide out during the workday
Sitting on my gender neutral throne
My island at my job. I write poems
While pretending to excrete
Thinking up these words

Every once in a time they get lucky
And catch me in their nets
Of overdue bills or raised rents
Men like them hate girls like me
Any excuse for them to add
A couple inches to their dicks
I am their hunted prey
You believe me right?
My words are barnacles
Clinging to the hulls
Of sunken ships
Shapeshifting in their wakes
A tangle of tentacles
Unpretzled into a shadow
Crawling through a keyhole

I am passing clouds
That will keep typing
Until you relax
Then squeeze underneath
Your locked, cracked cages
And open fish tanks
A soul of disguises
As I take my time
And slowly ink
Write on
Bye.