Here, Still
Fleeing things in place. 23 years of age.
Excise
Cut it out of me
Beat it out of me
Please
Flagellate and make me new
I beg of you
take this anger and this emptiness
Marx Wouldn’t See
It is said
that it is difficult to love someone
with mental illness
I know
I try everyday to love someone like that
Waking up to find
my own eyes still in socket
unable to muster up the
rosy reds and pinks of
serotonin
It is my failing
I, a man without product, in
endocrine Das Kapital
What worth is there, truly?
Cannot survive off the shared and pitiable leavings
of others
Eyes placed
into supplicating hands
offering up the chance
at my sight
you’d see yourself
as I do now
and wonder how you ever
felt that way
I cannot change
what you say
but I hope I can offer this
as some small solace
In catastrophic mindset
there lies some comfort here
not writing for months
but keyboard still held dear
perhaps this clears my head
perhaps it does not hurt
to hear the clitter-clack
(of keys)
a vorpal blade of sorts
(snicker snack)
a vocal dreary dead song
(a gathering of words)
Whale Song
Seeking affirmation
validation
inundated and soaked up
like honey in biscuit
through quiet whispers
and powerful orations
unable to answer why it
calls deep to this one
Flesh Covers Bone
Skin over flesh
Mind carried by cadaver
from place to place
Rotting endless and
haunting
rhymes no longer coming
My friends are all settling in on life and I don’t know what to do as they have kids and whatnot.
One into two
to start firmly the day
three comes at lunch
and four at six, oddly
(No say in it)
call it unnatural, ungodly
sordid and sad, but
at least not dead
Chantilly
The lurking sounds of city
Suspensions tied and tranquil
In thanking lord they
Hold
Cricketeering rackets
Karaoke flesh tones
The blur of black dresses and whatnot
Driving slow and horn honk
Korean slurred and slurried drinks
In quiet strip mall town
Electric motor whir and drift down
Starting and staring through eclectic
Motown this ain’t
Quiet drive a run down
Hi, where do I sob endlessly into the void
Writhing in its nest
struggling to contain
esophagus does its best
to keep the flood from drain
sphincters pull tight but can’t hold fast
the flow of toxic rain
Ask me things
Shorn
Grown beard just to
maintain the ability to change
keep it on to shave off to
stop being the same
a mixed bag
I’m a god when I’m in it
and I whisper in sinners’s ears
life remains more banal
than outer projection appears
hair heavy gates come clanging
protect and stymie shaving
til my ears fall and sag
I’m
desperately searching
for enough to stay alive