Cold

It creeps upon my weary frame, the chill

Like icicles that course through marrow deep,

An ache ethereal that somehow seeps

Through ev’ry inch of body. Devil’s will,

Its evil hand, it strokes my spine yet still.

Globules contaminate my breaths, so steeped

In yellow, green and brown, and so I sleep

With hopes the morning brings the healing pill.

As I do battle internally, I

Contemplate whether this condition is

Another temporary malady

That will be gone, with small blink of eye,

Or if this is the one that does not miss.

Pathetic cold will be the death of me.

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The Hipsters

The school bell rang

And the hipsters hit the street,

Armed with the latest fashions from

The outmoded industry.

Listening to the cutting edge

Derivatives from their parents’ scene.

 

They laid to rest the prophets

Who taught us reactionary mantras,

And they cried at the loss of

Recycled philosophies

That only skimmed the surface

Of this stuff, humanity.

 

The answers to our questions lay undisturbed

Next to a stash of cash and pornography.

As you can see,

There’s not much interest in reality.

There’s a fortune to be made

In insincerity.


Originally published Oct. 11, 2017

The Dark Place

There is a place so deep, no light will touch

Its darkened reach. A place so cold and far,

Inhospitable, existence is barred.

A realm remote and isolated much.

No pasture green, no sky of blue as such.

This place inside my aching chest, a scar

Against my ribs, a pit as ebon as tar,

The vacuum within propping me, my crutch.

So bury me in haste, shallow the grave,

A testament to wasted, numbered days.

Remember me, this foolish knave,

Mistaken choices made along the way,

And fill the void with lies that I have saved

Inside my heart, many the dues to pay.

Tabula Rasa

We are born unto this world,

Our slate pristine,

And add to our ledger over time.

Our stories are told

In black and in red,

Laid out on the bottom line.

As the years pass by,

Debts and debits, they accrue,

Our deeds both noble and larcenous.

The reds, they pile up,

The blacks but chip away

Recorded in ink’s insouciance.

To wipe the slate clean,

But only a waxen coverall

To hide the ugly underside.

The reds slowly bleed through

Like the lady’s hands,

The blacks are tossed aside.

We are not the sum

Of everything we have ever done,

But of all we have ever done wrong.

i stand

i stand

before raging winds,

whipping around me

like some ethereal robe,

wrapping me in

the protective calm

only chaos can afford.

buffeted about

by myriad debris,

flung wildly about

from far and from near,

collateral damage

from the storm

unleashed around me.

for i am the eye,

and through it all

i stand.

this business of poetry

this business

of poetry

is definitely

some bullshit indeed,

metaphors and similes

to tell you

love is a tree,

or pain a stick of butter,

when after all

some things are

just what they are,

and if you need a poet

to tell you the spring

is your rebirth,

what you may really need

is a decent therapist.

this business

of poetry —

pretty words

may win the girl,

but they never

keep her,

yet the poetry remains,

clad in black and

what a friend!

that thrives on

your tortured soul.

this business

of poetry

is such bullshit,

i had to write

a poem

to express it.