Brandon Greer

Brandon Greer

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Fuck the mail

fuck the time clock at work

fuck the front right

tire that is going flat on a 30

year old piece of shit.

 

Fuck the speed limit

fuck the grocery list

fuck the bum begging for

change to be dropped in his

piss-stained coffee can.

 

Fuck the brightness of day

fuck the darkness of night

fuck the gray area in between

where no one can seem to

get their shit together.

 

Fuck happy hour at the bar

fuck dinner served at 5

fuck the neighbors hiding in

their closet with needles in veins

and pistols cocked.

 

Fuck the rain on the grass

fuck the stars in the sky

fuck the sound of the

train rolling its thunder

across the nearby tracks.

 

Fuck all expectations

fuck all regrets

fuck everything I’ve

written tonight—

fuck me

fuck you

fuck this poem—

 

9/20/16

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Brandon Greer

Brandon Greer pic

Romance Is Dead

 

Romance is dead
gone
forgotten
buried beneath the
rubble of progress.

Lovers trade glances
over cold toast and
numbing headlines.
They go to dinner parties
and church
with forced smiles.
Now and then they
mess the bedsheets up
with a meaningless lay,
but that kind of absence
is only a small ripple.

Romance is dead
a hollow shell
a memory of days
that were better than
the ones we shuffle
our feet through now.

The streets are crammed
at daytime with people
rushing for the next hustle
the next big deal
the newest trend
the latest fashion,
but at night everyone hides.

There is no need for teenagers
to park in front of malls
or fast food joints
or bowling alleys.
It has become easier
to plug the soul into
high-speed internet
and cell phones that
cost more than most
middle-class people
make in a week.

No eye contact.
No context.
No interaction.
Hypnotized.
Blind.

Romance is dead
suffocated
snuffed out by
the shepherds of
the discontent.

Chase the dollar
drive the Lexus
use the best toothpaste
eat organic
make yourself the star
of every advertisement.

There is no more
love of life—
only possessions
only tangibles.
The urge to kiss the
sky has been traded
for the urge to kiss
the screens of HD
televisions.

Romance is dead
and the human race
died
with
it.

 

 

 

 

Brandon Greer has lived in Southern Illinois for all of his 35 years.¬† His love of the written word began as a child and has only grown stronger with the passing of time. He is the father of one son, Hunter, and has been published previously in TPG Magazine.¬† His poem “Wondering About Death” will be published in the 2016 issue of Broad River Review.