"You don't know how to write a love
poem," she said. "You couldn't
write one to save your life...
or your marriage."

"I'm not married," I said.

Apparently it was the
wrong thing
to say.

She left.

and I
returned
to my
desk

and wrote
something
that was
not a love
poem.

I'm getting busy in the office at work
listening and analyzing the lyrics
of albums I can find on YouTube
there are a few

Right now, the artist is talking about
choking a ***** with a cable
and spitting into her mouth as she
gasps for air and struggles
to scream
and then he says he'll
****** his ***** into her
dead mouth and will
feel like mouth ******* a fish

afterwards the artist
goes on a killing spree
in the streets and
throws racial slurs at those about
to be shot

he also shoots the police

what an interesting life this man
must lead

I mean, it says on the cover of the
album and he said it in the
intro that he's describing his life
in this work

impressive, truly
impressive

but you know, I too am a bit of a
******* lifer

I'm sitting in this comfy office,
in a comfy chair, surrounded by monitors,
sipping Irish coffee, because I'm so *******
that I smuggled a pint of cheap whiskey
here and poured into a coffee

and I'm using a screen to look at
photos of girls who work as
game attendants in the casinos I
supervise through cameras
and also, I swatted a mosquito on
some other screen

and I look at the bigger picture and
think to myself
Eh, what a live...
Drugs, women, ******...

and lyrics about 'em

****.

She likes to sleep late in the
afternoon, surpassing even me
and she wakes up a little groggy
and lays in bed and her coffee is a good
doze of browsing on her smartphone
which she lets charging all the short night

And then, when she's had enough
she smiles at me and puts her
phone aside and asks a
Would you rather question

And today's question was
"Would you rather **** a guy or
your own mother?"

"What?" I said. "Where did you find
that one?"

She said, "I made it up. So what's your
answer?"

"****, what would be yours?"

She thought for a bit. "Hehe, it'll have to be
changed a bit for me, no?"

"Yeah," I said. "So would you rather ****
your own dad or another girl?"

"It's a bit unfair," she said, "isn't it?
I mean, for boys. Me, I could easily
do either, hehe."

"Easily?"

"I already pretend you're my
daddy when we do it, don't I?"

"I though it's just a thing girls do."

"That's what they say."

"Well ****, so you sayin' you'd like
me even more if I resembled your
father more?"

"Aw, forget it. Just answer the question."

"If I beat you and kicked you out of the
house, like you said he did, would you
love me more?"

"Forget. It." she said. "Just answer my question."

"You answer mine first," I said.

And she though for a little longer and
though and thought about it
and checked her phone briefly and
finally said, "You know what, let's drop
both at once. What you want for breakfast?"

"I ate while you were sleeping," I said.

"Oh, well, where's the ashtray?"

"There's still some waffles from yesterday's
pack," I said. "And cream."

"Sounds fine. Can I have some in bed?"

"There's coffee too if you come to the
kitchen."

"Wow, you know how to bargain,
don't you?"

"Unlike your daddy you mean? Heard
he was fired last week. What's he
doing now?"

She gave a brief shake of her head
and got out of bed in her *******
stopped by me, kissed my cheek and
whispered in my ear, "Let's. Drop. It.
Okay?"

I said nothing
and she went to the bathroom.
When she came back the coffee
was ready and her ashtray was
on the table.
Her eyes didn't leave the
phone as she sat down.

The boy sits in a dark room
and wants to write
but he only thinks
and the words still come up
but they are forgotten
and this pains the boy and he
then decides to sleep

but sleep too is
forgotten and he is
left with breathing and
staring into the darkness

The bed is uncomfortable
and the pillow is too high

he takes it from below his head
and holds it against his chest
in a tight embrace that seems
to grow
ever warmer and
more affectionate

his palm starts caressing
the bottom side of the pillow
and his lips start
making pecking motions
against the fabric

and soon enough he grows
hard and his hips
start moving on their
own and he thrusts
into the pillow and thrusts
and the bed starts shaking

"What the hell are you doing?" his
wife asks from besides him.

"I'm writing a poem. Go back
to sleep."

so, you're writing poetry
or, well, at least you pretend to
and you pretend you're good at
it and the people want more from you

nice

but how come none of
what you write is uplifting stuff?

if anything, you've got more
depressing **** than uplifting
stuff
and you expect to get popular
with that?

get real!

you've got to inspire people
you've got to write
motivational stuff, uplifting, hope giving
stuff, upbeat verses brimming with
intelligence and radiating brilliance

your words are like confetti on a page
why are they
so scattered?

what poem is this?

why does it start with a lowercase letter?
are you dumb? Don't you know
how to write?

you're unbelievable, man, unbelievable
and don't even mention the
nonexistence of rhymes, pfff, lame...

this is not a ******* poem, fool
it's child's mockery
and you should grow up and stop
pretending you're doing this for a living

Understand,
you can't write poetry to save your life!
Christ, just look at the anatomy of this... thing

to behold your poem before one's eyes
feels like watching an escaped lab rat
dragging its entrails on the ground

the poor ******* is blind, toeless,
toothless, there's a syringe needle stuck
up its *** and its stomach is cut open
and the guts are pinkish yellow worms
that coil around its hind legs

that's what one of your poems look
like on the page, to the viewer's eyes

I'd seriously stop this **** if I were you
Grow the hell up, get yourself a wife
start a family and focus on
your career instead
of writing for
ghosts
You get it?


Um, yeah. Sure


Are you sure?


I am.


You're not gonna write about this
after I'm gone?


Nah, I'm not gonna write about this
conversation after you're gone
and I won't pretend I'm showing
it to the world and
they're enjoying it
and the critics praise me
and all that.
I'm done.


That's good to hear.
Take care, man. And remember, less
daydreaming and more attention to
the screens, okay? You're paid to do a
job here. To supervise casinos, the
people who work there and what
they do, okay?


Okay.


Good. I'm glad we could get
on the same page here.
Good day now.


Good day.

I am a sidewalk

one upon whom your
feet dragged heavy and
wet and tired

and I wonder where you
are going
and where you're coming
from

I look up constantly and
am tired of soles and legs and
******* and dropped coins
and litter

and indifference

Too many people, too few dogs
and cats and some rats at night

But you are
different. You wear no shoes and
your little feet are cold and
so delicate
and in your wake you are painting
me with a trail of blood

you are not in the mood to
receive compliments, I know. But
I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful

I hope he never catches you

I wish there was
something I could do
about it