Poetry: Selections from Jeremy Scott

Crash and Burn

High speed chase involving the police and myself, watch as I crash this car and burn. There is a Ballardian nature to the sexual pleasure I will enact from my pure immolation, like a Buddhist monk protesting, but with desire being the object, not the cause of suffering. Pour the gasoline yourself if you don’t believe, make sure it is high octane, I want to burn like midnight and sear like a seasoned steak. My erection is growing at the thought, peeking through my tightie whiteys, hello there, hello. I’m going to cum just from the friction generated from the road and eternity.

Family Values

Napalm excretions from the distended nipples of my mother were the only thing I could look forward to as a babe. My swollen belly starved for fuel, for the fire, while playing with Tonka trucks and learning that construction works was going to be the only place for hiding the bodies that I’d eventually pile up like the local stray dog’s shit on your pristine trailer park lawn. I didn’t know anything except the belt and her liquid death, my father locked in prison, she had to wear the cock in the family. I certainly couldn’t. I still slather mine with duct tape, hiding it between my legs, then hike up my wife’s thong, and feel the bliss of neutrality.

Shotgun Mouthwash

Yellowed teeth, full of cavernous cavities, gripping the barrel of my twelve gauge, while my warped copy of Nirvana’s Nevermind skips on my jerry-rigged record player. Wondering if the buck shot will hit something important or if I’m going to end up a vegetable in the hospital that requires sponge baths from nurses that think I’m an idiot for doing what I did, but only if they understood that the antipsychotic made things worse and the antidepressants made me less creative, so I might as well be a sweet with rot potato or onion than dead inside. But, yet I can’t pull the trigger, indecision creeping like a sore tongue across my decay filled canines, so, I tell myself whatever, never mind, and sleep since that’s the closest I can get to death without having to be culpable, responsible for something greater than the sum of its parts.

Jeremy Scott is from Albany, Georgia. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming with AGNG, Angel Rust, Bear Creek Gazette, Selcouth Station, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Gutslut Press, Fifth Wheel Press, and others.