The ɮɛsɬ Way to Dump a Punk


June 2 by The Running Son


The ɮɛsɬ Way to Dump a Punk



There’s no place for you here.
Punk you
kill me
with your stare,
parroting parental no-care.

Where’s your kids?
barren cribs gifted
to second-class egg-hatchers I guess.
That’s class, that right there.
Ass off and partying like, “heeeey”

That aint your girl, ferret.
Surely not your heir, hairless
where god made you, I mean, damn.
And that stare.
You don’t dilate right.

And now and again I get a bad gleam–
some weird light–
of an airy, and busy hidden life
or something.
I wish I knew

who you want to be, man.
As a man, Seeing sky
and the strange movements
of highly developed light in others eyes.
But your coolness, I don’t know

what to do with it. I cant look through it.
There is no bottom. I recoil lest I slip.
Like, Who are you?
And where is the part of you
that decided to leave the crib

for the great wild blue?
Still got your bib I see. And found a way
to hustle up a friendship
that proves the rule:
glib words peak after school.




by Jim Aldrich

.namaste.   -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •-   .namaste.


4 thoughts on “The ɮɛsɬ Way to Dump a Punk

  1. 1WriteWay says:

    Yeah, that eyeball is bad news. But I loved much of the imagery in the poem, especially: “second-class egg-hatchery.” And also really like the new background 😉

  2. That picture is freaking me out.

    I like the new background.

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RFB editor Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013

RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.

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