It's a wonderful day.
So I drink.
Skies are grey when the son is
away.
I'm on the brink of tears.
'cause my pen's out of ink.
I need ritalin with a beer.
You'll say I've wasted my years.
But who cares if my brain's purée?
This is my life and I don't need it anyway.
January first, I'm out with the boys.
Oh the Joys of avoirdupois.
Bowing to the sink.
The Popped collars on our polos, salmon pink.
We drink until we can't think.
She'll take my kid away.
I can't live a single man life.
I still need to pay.
No man's lonely without a wife.
I'll visit next birthday.
An unskilled worker's pride,
Always fills the void inside.
Dole squad can catch me.
I won't have pay no fee.
New year, same me.
Happy 2019.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
You walked into that surgery room. The time's turning your body to grume.
I see it in those eyes old man,
You don't wanna be
alive.
But death you can't
contrive.
Old man, look and see your offspring . Look and see the old woman by your side.
Look at the happiness you
bring. The sadness if you died.
Still, you're imprisoned in your human
flesh. Your grotesque wounds hidden under
fine mesh.
But, old man, don't you dissaffect.
Don't wear that face of gloom.
You walk like a conscious object.
But my dear old man, you'll walk out of that surgery room.
Soon.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
My heart of papier mache, dissolved in tears.
From tired days
and wearied years.
Angelic writing,
I read her line.
An Enchanted diary.
I just felt our souls, intertwine.
Here's to a life,
without expiry.
I thought about
how lost I was. High,
on a cosmetic buzz.
I heard her voice all around.
Then, I heard it resound.
But how was that? she's not alive,
She died of typhus,
spring of 1945.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
/Lully, lullay, thou tine child/
O sisters too, how may we do, for preserve this day. This poor youngling for whom we sing.
/"Bye, Bye, lully, lullay"?/
Three wise men would
ascertain,
Great Herod's crown, it would wane.
So mothers they weep for sons two and under, bodies seem gaudy amongst clothes, asunder.
Though the son of man is left not slain.
Should he die,
It shan't be in vain.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
Confronted, I'm helpless.
Running, I'm breathless.
My body's just a skeleton with a coat of human skin. I freeze and my knees, they turn to gelatin.
And if I can't defend her,
I'd just have to befriend her.
Until .... No....
If..
I can become a man, that keeps his knees and his upper lip, stiff.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Now I know,
This is the first time we've
spoke.
But, I wanna be you.
I wanna wear your skin as a
cloak.
In your ambiance, I will
soak
And when they speak my name, i'll say who?
I wanna wear your clothes as
mine.
I want to live your life.
I want your receding
hairline.
I want your growing
waistline.
I want to love your wife.
9-5, I'd work your
job.
I'd love your bratty son.
In the suburbs, a faceless
blob.
I wouldn't be an upturned
slob.
And when I'd sit in your car or your study, I wouldn't think of a noose nor a gun.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC