Penyair itu melangkahi pengemis pincang yang lelap itu.
Kasurnya adalah trotoar dan mimpinya ntah apa.
Jangan bahas mimpi jadi jutawan dengan kemeja dasi rambut klimis.
Mimpi basah saja harus sembunyi sembunyi.
Kan takut toh masturbasi di pinggir kali ?

Soalnya guys,
coli itu pun harus pake tangan kanan
selain soal tekanannya yang konstan ..

KALAU TANGAN KIRI KIRI KIRI,
Disangka PKI !
Ini perihal dosa Illahi saudara saudari!

—

Lalu pengemis itu Menatap angannya setinggi bintang di lantai 53 menara menara ibu kota.
Mengelus ngelus perut kurusnya.
Alhamdullilah, hari ini bisa santap sisa paha ayam dari restoran kebarat baratan itu.

Mungkin baginya, Tuhan menjelma dalam bentuk tempat sampah.
Menyediakan pangan sisa sisa umat kesayangan-Nya.
Dan dia, umat yang lupa ia punya.

Pagi datang.
Ia terus berjalan tanpa alas kaki.
Sekelibat melihat lamborgini, berkawal polisi.
Presiden mungkin ah?
Nomor satu, atau duah?

Dia tidak pernah berharap pada Tuhan.
Atau presiden.
Mungkin ia harus tetap berjalan saja.
Atau mungkin ia harus berharap pada ratu adil.
Entah kapan ia munculnya.

Apa ketika jari-jari kakinya lepas.
Hingga tidak bisa melangkah lagi.
Atau lelah menguasai tubuh.
Hingga enggan melangkah lagi.
Atau seluruh kakinya patah
Pun ia tidak peduli lagi?

Apa ratu adil sedang sibuk memasang konde besarnya
Takut takut tidak terlihat cantik saat hadir sebagai pahlawan kesiangan.
Atau ratu adil sedang sibuk
Memutuskan hukuman adil untuk penyair ini yang mempertanyakan kuasa Ilahi dia punya?
Atau mungkin ratu adil berhati dingin.
Seharusnya iya karena mana mungkin beliau yang welas asih membiarkan hambanya pontang panting,
malah sibuk mengurus penyair mengkritik program kerja-Nya tahun ini.

Yah ..

Memperhatikan pengemis itu terpincang-pincang lebih asyik daripada mengurus Tuhan.
Presiden. Atau ratu adil.

Apakah Mas Aristoteles meramalkan distopia pada nusantara?

I will gormandize the feast that is she.
Body of bread and butter
No, more.. Earth-bound fingertips scatter under pressure of a diamond.
Skin soft to bear blood, how gruesome.
Thoughts all turned to coal.
Body turn water to wine
The snake's forked tongue stuttered over silence screams.
Venom which could resurrect Christ on knees.
Wasp stinging back of bird's neck.
Her soul found grapevine tangled in nests.
Body as cold as ice
She has fled on Poe's Raven's wings.
Soul displeased and assured and so scared to be.
Calling for her out that chamber window.
Hearing no "where art thou" in this distopia thy named garden.
Body removed from time.
Could it be indescribably so?
That a heart has breached that dark surface below.

Hello
It's my cry that echoes
No other words come to mind
At this point, it is all I can say
The city is a distopia
Filled with destruction and smelling of rot
Just passing through, there is nothing
Only the flesh devouring corpses
The physical evil that roams this place
A moan here
And a groan there
That is the twisted chorus I hear
The soundtrack to this infected world

The windows are down and the rattling sound of my eardrums at high speeds are drowning out themselves.
It's threatening to rain again.
Ever since the onset of the strawberry moon,
a half mile of persnickety storm clouds seem to be tracking my every move
As I soured inside my stale bedroom.
Gloom and doom seemed to be my only mood,
tattered souls of old ideas blocked from new perspective
the only left to lend a hand.
compassion and wisdom are in high demand
but this current distopia is anything but the
promised land.

Often, when devoid of all the normal worrisome pondering, I evolve to questioning if I will always wander,
wondering who's company I will hold or will hold me next.
I have found it to be that both myself and others have regressed from the best
and with ample stress
we're just searching for the next place to rest.

I dream of heading out west, but I don't see myself being
any less depressed.
Everything is a mess,
I'm attempting to tell myself my chest won't always feel so heavy
if I keep my steps and breathing steady.

When it's time to go, I'm most certainly never ready.
"I'm hiding inside more and more but at least I tried"
is becoming the titletrack to my life.
All I can do anymore is gripe-
It's no wonder I'm alone night after night
unless I employ the poor company
that is sure to haunt me
longer than long enough.

Momma said "I live life hard",
that is to say I've been roughed up enough to make me tough,
but the soft insides of my toes still rub
and I'd say I'm due for a hug.

I can't stay much longer
but I'll take a sip or two of something stronger
and remind myself to
"hold on".



C.e.M. 7.22.15

One of these days I've said I'd learn,
so I could make one up
just as good as can be imagined in

undisneyified-ifity, dereminded to make points,
de-terminated-- determind, resist

the game is not over, it is
not. It is
No game. Stop playing. This is surviving.
We did it.
This is ever after.
You can do anything you think you can make
useful
on some level.

sitting in a space surrounded
by rain, I become rainish
I puddle up with distopia
gather rainish-soaked bitter memories
into my heart as though they’re precious
and necessary
my brain acting as rainish gauge
tracking un-data for the un-stats
for making claims like presidential
candidates

the heart knows Truth, knows Love
and never falters nor complains
the heart rests in comfort
like a baby rests in cradling arms
ignores rainish thoughts
and bittered memories
surrounds me with treasured ones
instead
gently leading me back to center

hearting me back to God


c. 2024 Roberta Compton Rainwater