I Wish (One of Three)

I kinda wish I had anything,
Positive to say at all,
About love and companionship,
In a flowery poem, but,
I really don't.

You find me, you lie to me,
You bring me up, and, then,
You remind me that I am,
An ugly little stain.

It's all lies, all lies,
The game of love and lust,
There's nothing underneath,
Your paper-thin flesh,
When you smile, I can see,
Straight through.

You find me, you lie to me,
You delude me into security,
Then, you remind me of all,
The worst qualities of this,
Sick, sad race of ourn.

I won't trust you, I won't,
Lust for you, I won't give,
In to the lies they tell,
About the happy ending.

It's all lies, all lies,
The game of boy meets girl,
Fluff and tuck, followed with,
Kiss and fuck, aren't we,
Delightful fools?

Yeah, I wish I did have,
A positive love poem.

The Exhibit

         the dance of
      dolls and mannequins starts
at the strike of dawn
         in the blue room

won't you come with
      me to the green room?
      there is an absolutely
gorgeous display of Degas

   Aren't his Bathers divine?

         your eyes so perfect
      your face so angelic
your voice so melodic
         why won't
you come
      to the black room?

i'm smitten with the toys
      and wind-up dolls that
         remind me of
Picasso, darling, in
      the yellow room.

   Laa la laa la
   Di di di
   Laa la laaaa
   Na na na
   Laa la laa la!

         your lips so inviting
      your hair so enticing
your hips so exciting
         please don't
think me an
      overdressed dandy.

a voyeur of human life
an observer on daily news
a perceptive bastard, they say
a receptive classicist, they say
they see him see
      you, do you
see him see what
      they see?

   Quick, mustn't be late for the Red Death . . .

The Banalities of Subconscious Reality (Doot)

"Sweet berries ready for two ghosts are no different than you.
Ghosts are now waiting for you."

   He was drowning in an infinitely deep pit of crushing sadness, tonight.

"Sweet berries ready for two ghosts are no different than you.
Ghosts are now waiting for you.
Are you..."

   In the center of a white backdrop, his mother looked outward at him and a stream of purple tears ran down her torquose face--but you can't dream in colour, can you?--and the grey shades of her flesh wrinkled and crinkled before his mind's very eye. She transformed into a pile of dust that formed into a desert which melted into an ocean and he saw a single dinghy bobbing on the waves, a lost and sobbing little girl--mommy?--rode inside clinging, sobbing, to the lifeless body of an unidentifiable man.

"Do we! Do we know, when we fly?
When we, when we go
Do we die?"

   A spider crept across Africa and ate the continent of Europe, then a face appeared in the centre of the arachnid's abdomen--The President?--and screamed silently, as hosts of maggots poured forth from his mouth and formed a puddle of strikingly red blood from which the figure of a different little girl rose, bloodstained, with red hair, and mouthed words, but no sound was made; the soundless landscape wrapped into itself and a cascade of lights exploded, streamers and ribbons of various hues dancing and reforming into shapes and forms--where am I?--which became the backyard of his old house.

"Sweet berries ready for two ghosts are no different than you.
Ghosts are now waiting for you.
Are you...
Sweet berries ready for two ghosts are no different than you.
Ghosts are now waiting for you.
Are you..."

   A teenage girl on a swing that was not being held up by any tree branch or anything he could see giggled and kicked the swing back, spraying dirt all over him and rapidly zooming toward him, the metal swing plunging into his torso--Augh!--and sending him sprawling against the wooden fence at his back. She fly high overhead and let go of the chains of the swing, releasing and freefalling into the empty, orange sky, where she transformed into a blue jay and was eaten by an aged, grey cat that smirked as his face transformed into the girl's--What?--which opened and vomitted up a human heart.

"Do we! Do we know, when we fly?
When we, when we go
Do we die?"

   Jerking himself up in bed, he awoke to the quiet peace of his bedroom, breathing heavily with a coat of sweat smeared across his forehead, as a solitary bird chirped outside his window between the song of crickets. " . . . Ugh, huh?" He wiped his face with his hands and sighed, then looked to his right and noticed the bleeding corpse of the teenage girl laying next to him in bed, and tried to scream, but his tongue crawled out of his mouth as a snake, which hissed and darted over the corpse and out of sight. He turned his body and went to plant his feet on the floor, but found nothing underneath and began plummetting toward a river of molten, greyscale lava, still trying his damnedest to shout for help.

"LALALALALALALALAALALALALALAALALALALA!"

   Eventually, the scene gave way to an empty, cold loneliness and the sound of sobbing.

In Search Of A Modicum of Dignity (Doot)

     He was seven feet tall, but only when he was asleep.

"How high's the water, mama?
Two feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Two feet high and risin'."

     A man of stature, as they say, who loomed over most average persons, and commanded respect through his stately posture and broad shoulders; moreover, a Greek statuesque, Herculean build made him, indeed, the most imposing figure in any crowd: that was, at least, how he visualised himself, at night, in bed, alone, unconscious.

"How high's the water, mama?
Three feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Three feet high and risin'."

     This position, as it were, filled him with confidence and security in his goodliness and worth as a human being, as from task to task he swept and completed each with such tenacity and expertise that none could bear witness with closed mouths. There came no questions that questioned whether or not he was the best candidate for any job, and the offers for high-ranking, prestigious, well-paid, benefit-filled employment flooded in as though the levees barring opportunity from his life had burst.

"How high's the water, mama?
Four feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Four feet high and risin'."

     He never sat home on any couch and moped about a dead-end job and unfaithful girlfriend; he never stared vacantly at the phone and wondered who would actual allot time in their lives to interact with his pathetic self; he never lingered at mirrors questioning whether he should part his hair one way or the other, and ultimately concluding that, no matter what, nobody would notice; he never sat on any closed toilet lid and juggled the thought of suicide around his mind. He was happy, there, in dreams.

"How high's the water, mama?
Five feet high and risin',
How high's the water, papa?
Five feet high and risin'."

     He woke up, one day, and hung himself with the same brown leather belt he had worn to work for thirty-three years and taken off each night at five o' clock, hanging it on a hook by the mirror in his room that he straightened his plain, solid-coloured tie in front of before heading out the front door of his one-room apartment located in downtown next to an abandoned grocery store where drug dealers gave him wary glares at he passed on the way to his twelve-year old, rusted, white, mid-sized car which was, currently, in desperate need of an oil change and new brake pads that he was sitting on, waiting for his next four hundred dollar, monthly pay check to come in so he could spend most of it on the parts at the mechanic that had slept with his ex-wife before they divorced five years ago and she took his only daughter and repossessed half of his liquified assets including a really nice pair of loafers he dearly missed.

"Well, it's five feet high and risin'."

Unnecessarily Untitled

i drank my soda on the terrace
       as the birds flew overhead
such grace
and to myself I said:

"Can you smell the Autumn, that
  Falls upon this Earth so divinely?
Can you smell the soil and leaves, as
  It all decomposes so beautifully?"

the sun sank behind the west
       behind my wall of silence
i raged
against every injustice I felt--

"God, don't you hear
  My prayers, to see
As the rest? And be
  average."

       the night is my blanket
       in its darkness i am comforted
       against the unbearable light
       of that God damn sun

       the night is my haven
       away from the reality of day
       and the red tint of my
       pitiful little prison

so i write and sip my soda
       a contrived little diddy
about how
it sure sucks to me:

"Wah, wah, God
  fucking Damn, wah."

A Poor Coping Device

Contemplating the steam raising from my coffee,
I sit over the city of ruination and dream,
Of hope, of love, of utter despair;
Cast my eyes over you for the last time,
Tomorrow, I may be blind, I fear.

Like by fish, people pass by my personal bowl,
And, from within, I sip my drink and sigh;
Smiles on celestial bodies swagger over seas,
A ship, two sails, a captain at the bow,
Navigating to dock, floating overhead;
Casting my eyes over you for the last time,
Tomorrow, I may be blind, I feel.

Colours fade into blacks and greys,
As the light grows increasingly intolerable to bear,
No burden meant to be borne by none outside myself,
Words on the page fall out of focus,
And I learn to read through a shaking blur.

Casting my eyes over you for the last time,
Wishing to remember every detail in sharp recall,
Losing what little sight I had with which to behold,
Tomorrow, I may be blind, I am told.

Savour my final coffee watching the world,
Fade away into glorious haze and glare,
In my eyes, blue to the swirling brown—
It reminds me of your beautiful hair—
And, tomorrow, I will be blind.

The Hirsute Romantic

Some women, to me, are mirrows of every flaw I possess, reflected back upon me in such a way as to bloat and cast them in such a disproportionate fashion that they far overshadow any positive aspect of my self, thus disillusioning me of any such notion that I may ever be worthy of their time.

Some women, to me, are wells where an infinite quantity of charity and kidness can easily be lost and torn out of the universe without so much as a scant trace of gratitude or reciprocation, thus leaving one disarmed and poorer for the effort.

Some women, to me, are raging hypocrits who cling to every aspect of traditional relationships that entails their direct benefit and selfish indulgence while railing for equality in every aspect of modern relationships of which they dissaprove and dislike, therefore creating the equal gender rule for men of being their unquestioning benefactor.

Some women, to me, are parasitic creatures that suck my will dry and my soul bare, devour my sanity and my clarity, hang me out to dry and write my words for me, inspire me to be faithless and hungry, craven and jaded, misogynistic and disenchanted, insecure and paranoid, mistrustful and detached, emotionless and unhappy: all because I let them.

. . . That is why I will always enjoy the blessing of being unattractive and invariably single.

That is All; Thank You

The Poet's Proposal

There's something contrived, I find,
In the metaphor of setting suns;
Won't you sit by the levee,
And watch the symbolic event?

I thought it may be romantic,
You see, to propose marriage,
At the twilight of our anniversary,
As life is full of such irony.

"That's not irony at all," you say?
"Really, you're a hack," you think?
Harsh of you to judge that way,
I must say, your taste just stinks.

Clichéd as it might seem, philistine,
The sunset holds layers of meanings, literary,
Allegory, Shakespearean, even Modernists use it!
Don't you know your philosophy?

Death, rebirth, change, transformation,
Metamorphesis, transfiguration, rejuvenation,
Is any of this ringing bells?

Damn, I'm not marrying such an uneducated woman.

Farragoes of Winnebagoes

Fun fact about me! Actually, this fact isn't fun at all, and is disgusting and you probably don't want to know about it, so if you're particularly opposed to disgusting biology, then stop reading, right now.
I have a boil on the side of my face: not a zit, not a pimple, but like a pimple on crack. It's the result of something like a zit that gets really under the skin and plants itself there and doesn't go away. I've had it for way too long, as it gets "full" sometimes and then drains, but it hasn't entirely gone all the way away. It's been . . . Probably a half of a year, maybe three quarters of one.
Perhaps I should invest in better skincare. I just stabbed it with a knife and drained it, again, so I have a bandage on the side of my face, which just makes me feel oh so gangsta hip-hop thug, or somesuch. Like I'm Genuine or Ludicrous, or however the retards are misspelling those words to represent themselves as high-brown, intellectual artists—illiterate artists with no access to a Dictionary.
Anyway, I'm going to take care of thing, tout de suite. I don't have much to work with when it comes to my face, and the . . . Throbbing boil isn't winning me points, here. Honestly, I'm starting at like . . . Plain ugly and working my way down to disfigured, at this point. Ew.

Not cool.