Tag Archives: poetry

come back, babycakes

One to two nights. One to two nights a week is reasonable, but every night for the last two weeks; blacking out face down? There’s a problem there, and obviously it’s a cry for help. My brain cells are finite, and my vocabulary has dwindled. I don’t want two hundred and fifty hangovers a year. I don’t want to live so easily. My stress is being taken from me and I can’t create unless I’m stressed. My vocabulary is regressive. What the heck was it that I was doing before that kept me afloat?! I’ve lost plenty of things since the year began, but the most heart-wrenching thing to lose was my mind.

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urban sentinel of the east, satellite of the old western night

banana peels and condoms cremate the path through the reservoir.
Be good, if you can’t, shadowbox questions waywardly.
We cough on the dust of aged halls,
junk-ill, ill of the junk that follows dawn.

The old and lived glow a degradation in regards to their living,
as a junkie craves the drop and the man, as hath been done in youth.
Cynics embark knowing their children will board the same ferry,
bountiful in; regulations, sorcery, cures, curses, errant maxims.

The toothless young woman donning canceled eyes, worn lips,
skirting cold turkey banquets to bask in rosy summer-sun chances.
Several years lost in several minutes, like kilograms of bad habits.
A ghost yearns what it does not have, a warm body to within, dance.

Sprinkled gold above legendary hotel doorknobs. Behind, a cell.
Not a flicker of an eyelid over the atomic bombs, nightbugs,
But fine faces of flatulent friends biding to collect fond flesh.
Con-artists, crooks be nothing more than they are,
nothing to lose but their touch.

Rancid muses, warm whimpers of lore lost, taxicabs, clever corners,
lit of kindled banana peels and kindling condoms.

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Filed under fiction metaphor, poetry

sometimes the simplest answer…


I don’t hate her. Why does everyone come to the conclusion that I do? When you want to find the truth about how two chemical ions react, you don’t ask them. You put them in isolated beakers and apply heat. Of course I don’t hate her, in fact I love her very much. I did until I found it easier just not to care. She obviously didn’t, despite my nursing her in her time of need, and getting her to put the bottle down to live her own version of her life. Misled me to questioning which values are important.

Never expected her to be there when I got that promotion at work, no disappointments. Never expected her to be there after the first surgery, no disappointments. Never expected her to be there when I got home from work, no disappointments. Never expected her to be at dad’s funeral, no disappointments.

What’d you think, that we would share a glass of wine, a slice of cake, then a heartfelt hug after? I’ve given her enough hugs. She’s given me enough disappointments.

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sonnet 142 (angry vent, sorry)

“Loving you is my sin, and your precious virtue consists in hating my sin, a hate grounded in your own sinful loving. But compare my moral state with your own, and you’ll see I don’t deserve to be reprimanded, or if I do, not from those lips of yours, which you’ve dishonored by using too much. Your lips have kissed as many people and made as many false promises as mine have, and both of us have cheated on our partners, giving away sexual favors where they don’t belong. If I may be allowed to love you the same way you love those other men whom you seduce with your glances, have a little pity for me; then you’ll deserve to be pitied yourself. If you want people to take pity on you and sleep with you, but you don’t show pity for me, you might be turned down because of your own example.”

You got into this trying to become someone that others can look up to. Now you only promote unhealthy habits and cry yourself asleep alone. No matter who’s bed you’re in. You may be faster, but that only means your faster at hopping into your grave. I’ve grown from my sins, and have made up more than enough for it. Now matter how good I’ve become or how even better I will become, I’ll never fit into your pictures. I’ve only come to realize this moments ago, and I understand. You’ve got the mind of a bunny, and you don’t want your bunny friends to know the tortoise was your guidance counselor. I definitely don’t deserve that, there’s no excuse in the world or in the clouds that could ever justify that. My only sin now is my delusion of having to still worry and care. However, that’s too cruel, even if it’s just. If it’s a race you want, you got it, but we all know the hare never beats the tortoise. Hop along, little rabbit, we’ve learned all we can from you.

(again, I apologize. But some people actually DO kick you when you’re down while you’re just having a sip of tea. Big fat jerk. f word.)

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Filed under non-fiction metaphor, non-fiction rambling, poetry, rhetoric