Friday Poem III

Again, I mine from the past, a true sign of creative bankruptcy. This week's one isn't that good, but it's sort of appropriate with the snowstorm outside and me being incredibly angry. I promise that next week I'll start putting new ones up.

The Cold

I can’t describe when I lose control
My frail body is no match
It is my enemy
It traps me where I happen to be
In solitary confinement
Free to leave at any time but unable
Unwilling to face something
Normal people deal with every day
I am filled with unreasonable hate
Towards this relatively mild annoyance
Clearly perspective is needed.

However, I am not a fan.

Friday poem II

This is me trying to be Bukowski, I think, which everyone should try occasionally.

The Untitled Poem About Resignation

“Damn, you’re calm,” they say to me,
My face a bleeding wreck from
Falling down a flight of stairs.

What I should have said is, “Fools,
Clearly I’m in too much pain
To do a fucking dance for you.”

Instead I say something else,
Something like, “Mmmphh,” which
I guess is code for, “I’m good.”

They all walk away and I
Almost grin, the fact dawned
That this was my family.

As the family fades away, I get stronger

My strength sapped by wasted days

Replaced with a decaying soup-like structure.

Oatmeal.

Friday poem

This is something I think I'm going to try to do every Friday. I'm starting with a rather old poem of sketchy quality, but probably next week I'll start trying to put more recent ones up. This is merely a ploy to get me to write more.

It's Teriffic!

Wasn’t born long after the rules of “fair play”
Proved to shatter my brittle bones, those worthless lies
I saw the eyes of a man
Much bigger and stronger than me.
Smarter too (not that it mattered)
As my shattered bones and organs shifted together
To spell out a word
To point out my crimes
It hurt enough to scare me straight
(Pitter patter goes my spleen)
Till I thought of those eyes.

I was left to lament my sorry dissected self
More toad than man, more boring than Man
It’s hard to keep one’s thoughts on it though
So I turned on the radio.

God I hate the radio.

A once valid method of pulling teeth
Slowly and surely, slowly and surgically
Spineless vibrations welling up my eyes
Switch from songs to static, you might be surprised.

You insolent dolt, that’s the morphine talking
Do the nerves in your brain even bother anymore?
What’s in store for you old man
Another house and a kitchen
To make more snacks (can you even do that?)
Take a rat and a toad and make them a deal
You give them a list but
You give them no choice
It’s enough to drum along
(Stop poking at my spleen dammit)
Paradiddle. Morphine no more.