The angel, Azrael,
came unto me -
he'd been drunk -
and showed me the true meaning of life

was inside of my glass:
"Swirling and burning;
a sour taste
in the back of your throat.
Something to sip wearily,
or gulp down in
devilish earnest. "

But of all things
the glass would empty
and the angel
would close His book
on us all.

I used to love these dreary, gray days
they'd lift my spirits
out of the muddy trenches
and straight through No-Man's-Land.

But today
gas
    is
      approaching
yellow and lurching
choking -
soldiers of the mind engulfed by
a creeping monstrosity.

The screams -
guttural like a raven's croak -
are unbearable
I was not ready for this.
I was too soft
we're all too weak.

It's a wonder
that there
is
anyone
left.

What has the world become
when a projection
of a cat drinking milk
is labeled ART -
is of high enough importance to be thrown
into a museum,
next to Matisse no less!
We've lost our way when there are folks out there -
decent, intelligent people -
working on masterpieces
that will never see
the light
of day
because you
are stuck
reading my obnoxious dribble -
or staring at a room filled
with sand.

My words are pregnant
and the water's just broken

How many ****** Valentine's poems will I
be forced to endure -
young love
lost love
ill-begotten love -
likened to that of a blooming red rose
thorns and all -
"Oh! my passion burns bright
like the flames in my *****!"

Much too cliche, I think
as I sit down to write my own
and sign it
"Yours Always".

I saw a girl today -
who I used to know -
she killed herself
just a year ago.

Whiskey in a tea cup
Porcelain and wild
Blonde and dark
She's running me amok

She swept through my life like a
tempest
Whirling and screaming and
Throwing dishes, crying, swearing -
All the things those storms do
to make you never forget

She'd destroy my home
And I'd take cover
Cursing her and that infernal
Wildness

When it stops
And the rain quits pouring
I'd look to the sky,
hoping it would all happen
Again.