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.
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
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
Originally published Oct. 11, 2017
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.
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.
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.
of poetry —
may win the girl,
but they never
yet the poetry remains,
clad in black and
what a friend!
that thrives on
your tortured soul.
is such bullshit,
i had to write
to express it.