He sat down. Said nothing.
It was apparent, though, that something'd gone terribly wrong.
He sank deep into the magnanimous cushions
Absorbing his suffering.
A casual rendezvous.
He's hardly thirty, but not presently.
He exists in the realm before life;
The land after death.
Surrounded by the vast infinity of nothingness.
Tomorrow he'll return to his desolate cubicle
Occupied by the essence of lost-potential.
For now, though, he's woven tightly into the couch
And is lost in a world that doesn't exist.
He's home.

The putrid smell of death
Lingers stale within the air
For 'while since the body's decomposed.

Many a maggot had their fill
And grew to fickle fly
A body made to many more
Than what its lovers cry.

It seems that every night
I lie in bed awake;
haunted by
My past mistakes
Knowing that sleep will set it right -
If only I weren't to wake.
But sleep not and see not I; tears fall
As I slowly wither -
A flower deprived of sun
Beaten down by the continuation of small tragedies
And the dread of life;
That throng of trivial ****
Killing quicker than AIDS
Which is always there ...
And among mine, I saw many minds
Of my generation
Destroyed by madness
A lost brigade of platonic
Conversationalists leaping down fire escapes
Off windowsills
Out of the moon
Because the world had failed us all.
But an old tale it is fore
Humanity, you never had it
From the start
So let us endure this hour and
See injustice done.
See the horror and scorn and hate
And indignation -
Oh, why did I awake? When will I sleep again?
I'm tired and I
Long to rest
And don't try and wake me.
I'll be gone
And glad to go
But it matters little
Because life is nothing much to lose
And this pain is absurd because it exists,
Nothing more.
So I feel this misery in
The boards of the floor, listening to music,
My melancholy,
These thoughts that sing within the caverns
Of my chest
A song that will
Never be heard.