what’s the point of history
if we keep flying
paper kites into a level five hurricane?


© 2021

When do we knock off?
Home offices, not for toffs,
I stagger to the desktop,
Yikes, another job!
Guess it won't take me long,
******* my phone, my new song,
We can afford gas for cars vehicular,
But not allowed anywhere particular,
So, we work in the home office,
Jobs designed for masochists!

You dissolute deputation
Of disparate dipsomaniacs
Disparately determined
To drive me, distance me
Definitely, diametrically
Dizzily daft, daily.
Ditzy, I determined to
Deftly divide them;
I defy them, deny them,
Don't deify them
But deride them
Stand beside them
And guide them
To wander away
Until some other day
Some other fool
Who, as a rule
Digs abuse and misuse.

It's not a truce
But an absolute demand
For their total surrender
So they remember
From December to December
I am not a lifetime member
Of the “Beat Me” club.
Aye, there's the rub
You thought I liked it
So you could spike it
Like a basketball.
But, my soul is not at all
Into anything you could call
Masochism or submission.
So, if your mission is
To collect acolytes and slaves
You'd just better save that
For someone sicker than I
And bid me a fond goodbye.

You crave human touch, like flowers crave the sun after a long winter, but you won't believe it when they give it you.
You expect everyone else to mean everything they say, just because you do, but God, aren't you stupid? You're single handedly handing tickets to your own doom.
You see him as summer rain, as sweet ginger tea, as fronds on the living room, you see him as home, but you and I know he barely knows who you are.
You're living the masochists ways. You're craving what you can't have. You're loving who won't love you back