Can you hear the violence?

Yes, I stole this line from a Lorde song.

No, this poem has nothing to do with “The Louvre.”

—

thunder bones

by midnight,

I can be a cannon too;

however tired and

styrofoamed in silence I sit,

my ribs beat for violence.

I can wake the sleeping suburbs with my scream

rip up their dreams (that they’d never recall by dawn anyway),

yes, rip them by the seams,

and chisel in their bleary eyes the veins of crimson fireworks.

“Ka-boom, pew, bamboozle, rat-tat-tat, pow” apart the enemy…

(Okay, hold, please)

Who is my enemy?

Who do I blame

for the tiredness dragging me down,

for my instinct to sunder the night?

Do I blame this safely insulated suburb?

The violence of the styrofoam silence?

Do I blame the liquid lightning roar,

the drums that haunt my heartbeat?

Well, whatever, never mind,

I can be a cannon too,

my violence gunnin’ against the resistance,

let’s make this an all out war on,

like,

somebody.