i’m shock-collared at the gates of heaven
i’ve kicked the cairns and shot the bird
and now, an avian crucifix on my neck,
i **** my ship
i swear i’m a good man
i’m barking at my toes,
affixed and accused
mouth wide open
screaming for rain
holding back the blood flowing from my nose
and that wretched albatross mocks me
i swear i’m a good man
"pull my hair",
and so i did.
dragging the albatross across
pavement stretching several states
i turn my back to where i'm going
for a fishermanwomxnbeing
to spear me in the back and
hang me as one of their own
in case your feathers get bent
and crows tear at your meat
until i'm wearing nothing but a
skeleton at my ankles
but even then i doubt any killer
will pry my mouth open the way
you did when you wanted me to
feed and even then i doubt
they would look at me with
the affectionate fear you had
of never having the sight of
two glass worlds you thought of
as yours again and even then i doubt
anyone would be able to **** me
because i'd be dead already
if i was completely without you
and no evasive species
has the strength or the claws
to drag you sea from sea
and open their wings wide enough
to envelop you with the warmth
of the beating heart you've called
your pillow for as long as
you have been sleeping well
and asking me to pull your hair
and so i have but i am tired
of begging for my own ******
as i drag you around because
you aren't my albatross.
you're the one i love
and i'll carry you as such.
saying "I love you I love my baby
I love my baby so yes yes oh yes
you can fall asleep in my arms
forever you will always be safe
you will always be loved"
whenever I'm carrying you
until we can
fly together forever.
Kind of an old poem
Oh, fallen angel, why do you weep, why do you cry?
Have you lost your way, have you lost your eyes
Defined by others, you can never get back into skies
Now, being torn down you must forget how to fly
And learn how to walk among these rats in the hellish fires
And if they see you trying to take off the ground,
They’ll tear your wings off and gnaw you to death in an instant count
dedicated to my favourite poet - Charles Baudelaire
Just because you now use your spear
as a walking stick, doesn't change
your past's sanguinary veneer
men, women, and children, your range.
All for us to sing of your κλέος,
the shades come back to haunt,
your glory, your fame, your albatross.
dreams of slit throats and screams daunt.
You have given up bloodshed,
we no longer sing your praises,
now you can finally rest your head,
and the enemy thanks you for your hiatus.
That which is done can't be unseen
That which is unseen, may never be
That which may never be, such loss
That which is such loss, albatross
That which is albatross, you run
That which you run from, is no fun
That which is no fun, shouldn't be done
That which shouldn't be done, don't see
That which you don't see to, won't be
That which won't be, is total loss
That which is total loss, albatross
That which is albatross, is no fun
That which is no fun, is... wait what?
That which is wait what, give no buts
That which you give no buts, is done!
That which is done, ad nauseam
The grass is always greener
When the sun and moon share time
And if you wish to change demeanor
You'll learn this truth, I find
For I have rode the albatross
And dove deep into the sea
I have climbed with Sisyphus
And Hades set me free
I always consider putting the intended meanings in this section but time and again I've decided I'd rather have the reader to assign their own meanings than me tell them what to feel
In rock pools, tiny claws dual over colourful crowns
that were sent across the seas from the Gods.
The deadliest of gems sought for in crustacean kingdoms
Fish hide in bottles and swallow plastic shrimp,
while flotsam and jetsam decorate the shore;
Albatross, guardian bird of the waters
we stopped looking up to you,
we stopped looking behind us to see if you were following
when we could fly higher, fly faster...
Jet power, metal wings, turbo engine.
Our good omens
I cry for all the canaries trapped in coal mines.
While we look for life on Mars
I feel dead on this ship,
but it's still floating, floating...
Written in Autumn 2013
so want to be free of this burden
my personal albatross
a heavy bird with imposing weight issues
feathers of inconvenient proportions
and a growing stench that makes me ill
an unjust sentence
from a trial unheard
evidence given in secret
never tested in the light
my crime, trust
here’s a laugh
what if the bird resurrected
chose you as the new bearer
would it ***** things up
just a little
such an adornment
that would be justice
seeing you recite the mariner’s rhyme
The rushed days are slipping by
As I ride this eagle into the sky
Circling the mountains high
Never knowing the reason why
Those of us would pay to die
As the albatross sit and cry
All I can do is stand and sigh
Knowing the end is drawing nigh
It is like some steampunk nightmare
Where working overtime is a racket
When what was time and a half pay
On the day I get my check, I make less;
Some kind of tax bracket scam thing
Where working extra hours put me
Into another category and increased
The tax they use to grease the wheels
Of a bloated government that hates me.
Maybe that dates me and it isn’t true;
That things have changed and it is
No longer arranged that way. And maybe
The way things became done was that
I got it all back as a refund. But isn’t that
Redundant, that I had to pay it to them
To use it like per diem for their games?
The shame is that I chafed and did nothing
Besides ******* and frothing at the mouth.
It’s not like I could go south to Ensenada,
Buy a piñata that looked like Mickey Mouse,
It was just that the house always wins.
But I have to pay for my tiny, mundane sins.
Why don’t they? Why does it go on and on
And then the money’s gone and I pay more
The next time some fat ***** of a politician
Begins a petition to increase their slice
And nicely reduce ours to a pittance
So low there is no admittance to a show
Or enough to replace a car that is a wreck?
The albatross around my neck gets larger
As it I move farther from the day it died
Even though I have tried standing up straighter.
It’s The Grand Guignol Theatre that life is
And the strife is to not let it get me down;
To be the happy clown and not the sad one
In a game that was begun to make me lose.
I am not confused. I see it, but it seems
Even in dreams I get no kind of relief
From a governmental thief with immunity;
The pillages with impunity and teases
That he does what he pleases. Neener, neener
What in hell could possibly be meaner?