I don't know whether I've got Poet down or not. I don't think I'll ever be as good a writer as he was, but hey. Naughty Language Warning.



"Ain't got no fuckin' gift, Adebisi. I ain't go no gift."

"Git yo ass offa that roof, Po-et!"

I ain't got no fucking gift. No gift or shirt or bags of blood. No fucking way I'm goin' down there to get my ass handed to me in a little plastic baggie and an empty ashtray.

No fuckin' way.

"Nothing gonna push me down where I gotta fight against a stake, no ink or nothing, man."

Adebisi, man. That's not poetry, man. That's nothing but a bunch of bloodlust and uselessness. That blond bitch has all the power, man. All the stakes, all the sun and lying takes, take me on, no, nothing's gonna be alright.

"I'll deal wit' you, Po-et."

And I know you will, Adebisi.

They burst through the door, ashtrays waitin' to happen, man.

I like it up on the rooftop, watching all the carnage. I can write - yeah, but I can't. Ain't got no gift.

Don't have no paper, either. Fuck.

Start drawing on my arm, up and down. Yellow eyes, yeah, that's where it starts, up there, and down there. On the ground, there are people. They don't see me. I'm gonna do them a favor. I'm gonna tell them a story. I'm gonna tell'em.

"Hey! Yo!"

They look up, mid-stake. One more pile. One less gangsta, one more shit-faced grin. Fuckin' listen, alla you.

Yeah. That's right.

I start. Words come out, come through, go down. Flow down. Throw down, yo. Hit'em in the head, hit'em where it counts.

"There ain't no poetry flying through this town; ain't no, no sunny in Sunnydale--"

Almost a dozen faces all tilted up. They were gonna kill each other, yo. I wanna jump down and kill, squash. Dish it out, up, yo. But fuck. I know my limits.

"--all the blood drips down onto the bitch's face; I lick it up, like that do you bitch--"

There's that blond bitch. There's that breath, yeah, you want it, girl. I'll give it to you someday.

"I'll break your neck, I will, throw down on my new tape deck, new fuckin' art deco chairs all red and salty..."

My fuckin' tape player.

My fuckin' LIFE, man, it ain't here. Ain't nothing here for me. Don't even feel my gift, man. No fucking thing here.

"Livin' off blood and guts, like home; she's a disgrace, leave her in the woods all dead and drained--"

Yeah, I remember doin' that. There's Mc-fucking-Manus. That horror, yo. Remember lookin' at me like that when I wasn't a demon and still cared, fucker?

I'll rip your throat out, make you choke on it. Think I'll write in your blood.

But, man. None of this is up to me.

"I been trained and blamed and rearranged, and life ain't any better or worse--"

There's never enough ink in these fuckin' things. Not that it matters.

"Still fucking, fucking burying'em out in the backyard."

Got no shovel, no hovel to put the bodies in. Adebisi just lets them rot on the lawns of good, law-abiding citizens. He likes the smell.

He always smelled. Fucker needs to take a bath.


"There ain't no poetry left in this scumbag town; I don't miss much glass, cash, ass, but a pen ain't good for shit no more."

I whip my hands around, stare down with yellow - yeah, yellow, I'm a fucking demon, fuckers - eyes. I know I'm a sight. I know I'm a fright.

I know I like it better here than anywhere else. This roof is being a good homie. They're sure paying attention now.

The finale.

"Oh yeah. I stabbed her eyes out with it."

My words, they fly over this sky, night, horrifying fright, and drown in it. I turn around, and they go back to tryin' to take each other down. I climb down off the roof. I head back into town.

I throw my pen in a dumpster, and look for something better to write in. Write with. And fight with.