When I was just a child, they were just a married couple;
Older, middle-aged, nothing distinguishing about them at all.
I loved swimming in their swimming pool,
Until they upsized, to a glitzy neighborhood of rambling,
Ranch-style houses.
And they upscaled, to exotic, foreign vacations.
Brought me back a Hawaiian volcanic stone, with emerald flecks,
A salt and pepper shaker set from Israel.

She was a clothes horse, always kept her figure,
Dressed slinky but classy, for an old babe;
Visibly stood taller, if another woman
Ever complimented her clothing or style-
And they invariably did.

My dad said that when alone with her husband,
That man would brag about daily *******
From his office receptionist, at the end of the workday
Before going home. I was older then, tried to imagine
How the shared exchange could have furthered
Some ancient, nightly excavated ambition?

Alone with her once, my dad said he made an innuendo,
Some playful joke which he had since forgotten the point of,
Probably due to the more stunning reaction it caused.
He had always loved teasing with words,
But he said that she had dropped all suggestion of pretense,
And she had told him then, You couldn't handle it..
He still chuckled about it, long after the fact.

Funny how for all those years, what I remembered seeing
Was a mostly colorless couple
Who always drove large Cadillacs.
And how in the later years, he could only move
While tethered to his oxygen tank,
Though it never hindered his smoking.

Overthinking concepts then,
Conceptualising my overthought thoughts,
And being wrought with Lovecraftian insecurity,
Words stumble out like it’s three at the club,
Thoughts confused like it’s three at the club,
Existential then small; then harrowing then disparagingly normal,
Repeating points and the still being lost from the point,
Frustration as we weave around the point,
Where’s Wally-ing the words I’m looking for,
A million in one,
I wonder what the exact Wally statistic is,
Am I bi?
Or straight?
Or confused?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I happy?
Or sad?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I loved?
Or lost?
Or alive?
Or real?
Every problem upscaled to reality,
An anxiety manifested in universal proportions,
If life is a story, then why’s mine so close to not being boring?
Like a film with the wrong director but the right script,
Through hardship and pain,
you would hope I became,
Something more,
Or learn a lesson,
Yet every lesson I learnt is being rewritten,
No solid thought,
Just liquid existence,
It’s all in connections,
Nature is woman,
And harshness is man,
The link exists I’m sue,
But finding the words I’m lost,
Scores of wondrous ideas with no real reason,
Life has no reason,
Life’s full of reason,
Life is the reason,
I’ve never truly lost,
I only get kicked from group chats or families,
Without family we lack identity,
Without reason this poem lacks footing in reality,
My reality lacks footing in reality,
Is this meant to happen on the daily?
It’s three at the club,
Waiting for the taxi,
Writing on the memo app,
Hoping that when I wake up these words mean something,
Or if they don’t then at least they read well,
In the morning,
Where I’ll be ***** and yawning,
Forgetting these events as they’re fleeting,
I’ve been theorising that all people fantasise about dying,
Pushing ourselves till we destroy it all trying,
Die an icon,
Or a *******,
Either way end up forgotten,
Controversially, I would call myself an optimist,
Not traditionally, sure,
But this longing is the purest,
Confused.

If they could bottle my mind
It would explode an incoming tide
If they could slaughter my pride
I would die tonight.

Cigarette burns on my jeans
Coffee and whiskey stains on my lips
Burrowed drunken tendencies
Making me do things I regret
From fighting sleep to breaking noses
And deadly plunges into despair.

I know I have to withstand
Refrain from frightening myself again
Near death experiences have become the norm
I'm a morbid thinker anyway
Deeply trying to find a sense of harmony
A melody in a disjointed song.

Memories are of hazy days
Drinking and scratching walls
Waiting for them to bleed
But my fingers do so
Painfully spilling crimson
Over immaculate floors.

I seek redemption and a upscaled life
Full of blooming flower pots
And love
I seek energy so I can run a marathon
To the other side of this world
Grasping onto my heart as I do so
Keeping my guts intact.

My funeral should be empty
I don't know anyone who would want to sit through it
I'm ain't charming or socially acceptable
So why would they want to read out an eulogy of warmth for me?

And onto love I go
Trying to capture the essence of it
Preaching to God about it
Manipulating its strain
Offering it to strangers who drink with me
Because they feel sorry for me.

And then I wake up to a groggy feeling
A taste so dire
I would rather drink my own ****
And tell all my secrets
To the world.

Marry my good side
And shatter my bad side
Empty pride into a cup of ***** laced orange juice
And drink up
It may sting
It may make you sick
But it'll burn your throat
And your dreams away.

I was once a dashing prince
In my own castle
In my mind
I was a man of power
Of glory and hope
But truthfully I look like a corpse
Dragged through a gutter
With snapped tendons in my hands.

I sit it in this club for hours
Drinking straight up whiskey
Ordering so many that I'll be dead
Before it's all drunk
And then she appears in front of me
Beautiful in an organic kind of way
Deeply rooted in elegance.

It must be an illusion
No one this well rounded would want to speak to my washed up self
But she does speak
Offering me advice
On how to live a stable life.

I listen carefully
To her words
She's creative
Like a wordsmith
A dream catcher
A painter of a scene.

She grabs my glass and throws it at the wall
She takes my hand
And tells me I won't fall
She orders me to drink coffee
Enough to waken my soul.

She saved me from myself
A princess of the night
A girl draped in white.

In this apartment I sit
With her head on my lap
She sleeps, snores even
But it drowns the voices in my head.

The TV show is glitzy and fake
Lovers kissing at every take
Their optimism sickening to watch
Their eyes have never seen hurt
Or death
Or knife wounds.

I grab a cigarette
I smoke it to the end
I drink a beer
I drink it to the end
This pattern only points to one outcome
Oblivion.

She wakes
Kissing me on the cheek
Whispering
'Let's ****' in my ear
With haste I jump up
And scream
You cheated on me
Why would I?

I think the rats heard me
As they scampered into the crevices
Hiding away as my wrath begins to widen.

She sits back and takes it
Looking on at me with bloodshot eyes
And a smirk.

She grabs her stuff
And leaves me to cascade into despair
Another beer will be drunk
Another piece of love broken by a deceit.

Rendered expendable
Merits commendable
Just not the right
Fit for you
At this time
Heard it once before
Now
I can’t leave it behind
Wasn’t good enough
Failed
To meet standards  
Unfair
And availed no comparison
Income upscaled
But I’m making more now
Doing less than I’d hoped
I’m the office space coffin’s
New friendliest ghost

Want to see
How the filthy rich live
Before I
Should become one
Myself
Rather die
Than comply
With the status quo notion
Of progress
Achieved
Only set in slow motion
And masses aggrieved
When appeasement has failed
And the stimulus spent
When the city upscaled
Can’t afford to pay rent
When the gentry
Carte Blanche
Becomes staunchly imposed
On the food insecure
Still ensuring their homes
Built atop the displaced
The eviction note’s
Victimless crime
Is eraced