Bad Poetry

Give me a pair of corduroy bell-bottoms. 

Pin my heart to one sleeve
and a flower to the other, 
as I pen my manifesto.  

I want to smash through windows
and logic,
impaling myself on splintered ideology. 

A martyr who:
traipses, 
skips, 
dances, 
to the cross.

I want to fertilize a hopeless revolution
with bad poetry, 
and proud insolence.

Qouting Lenin, 
singing to Lennon, 

a cocktail in one hand, 
a bomb in the other,  

I want to preach peace, 
like it’s war.