Tragedy is spectator sport.
No extra fee is needed.
The equipment never changes.
And there always seems to be matches to linger around.
Screams and taunts can be heard from the sidelines.
Almost always is the advice.
Wrong.
Yet no move is made to rid them.
Blood stains the bout in rhythmic circles.
Etched in over time.
For the paces rarely alter.
Blows are exchanged recklessly.
And the crowds lust for suffering elevates.
Slowly as the two cease in a stalemate of self loathing.
The mob moves on to the next victims to sate the everlasting hunger.
A hopeless unanimous decions.
Humanity.
Zero.

Am I the one royally *******?
I thought I had my picking?

A beautiful girl,
Left to her own,
With no one but her soul.

It hurts to know its inside of me
And not so many others

Decions I don't try to make,
Because I know they're hard....

But call me baby girl one more time,
And know
You know you're mine.

Some its said have an aversion to domestic
chores. Its effect rubs away relationships,
after cleaning, slumpt in a heap I am good
for nothing.

Magazines try to advise befriending
the routine. Check in when you begin, allow
the mind to wander and reflect.

Those uneasy decions years since -
let them go. Remember it’s not
a quake. Afterall it’s only an

after shock so there shoud be
no ill effects. This bouncing around
itches my bleached flesh

on my arm pock marks glisten like a
gritty saucepan bottom. Standing at
the sink, dripping from scuttling

memories of happy events. Lassoed
by the cleaner cable I feel the rushing tug
of dust up the pipe. It wasn’t your fault a voice

shouts loud, as I watch sparrows on
the fence, whistling, at wasting energy,
complaining about moments passed.

On the radio the jingle, jangle of
Mr Tambourine Man speaks of dreams
waiting between crisp cotton.