the beasts that till your poisoned soil
carve patterns in your furrowed brow
that signify the burdens borne
in the silence of your tortured nights
and the futility of your empty days
now you sup from a bitter cup
while reciting your litanies of spite
of love’s bloody negotiations
and the terrible price you paid
for such slight return
your sadness tastes like ashes
you have told yourself you’ve had enough.
there was a moment
when we could
have been friends
then she stared at me
she saw the scars
then they were all
that she could see
those are the
shameful reminders
of the boy I used to be
I have moved on since
my wounds have healed
but the scars remain
for everyone to see
this place
burns me out
with wearisome
repetition
its suburban cliché
weighs heavy
on my doldrums
and I’m drowning
in an ocean
of sundays
I’ve gone native
in the great nocturnal
I’m flying solo
from now on
I better bail out
before I’m found out
I have deviated
from the pattern
of the flock
those dopes
are sheparded
by wolves
they are helpless
and enthralled
their decline
commenced sooner
than anticipated
they had assumed
they’d be given
more time
give me comfort
bring me sustenance
for this is a grey world
and there are hunters
sharpened for murder
hungry for a piece of us
waiting at the door
I’ll trust you
just for the hell of it
you’ll trust me
because you’ve nothing
left to lose
when we first met
I sank to the quick of it
I knew there and then
I must have you
.
I’d like to fist your face and ram my heat into that gaping maw of yours. I’d soon stifle the spewing of verminous edicts that echo through that empty brain pan of yours. I want to grab each dirty matted syllable by its tail and stuff it back down your throat.
Your banality is a parody of thought. Yours are clown words with big grotesque fuck off feet that trip and stumble into my bleeding ears. Every time you open that repulsive mouth of yours I feel like I’m being held hostage by an amoeba. You drain my strength – you suck me dry like a bath full of leeches.
You gobble up useless information like an omnivorous vacuum cleaner, which is why your head is full of dust and shit. You can’t lay claim to thoughts, because all your thoughts are borrowed and overdue. You have a talent for engineering mountains into molehills and reducing the inspirational into the inconsequential.
I think your knowledge is a burden; it brings you no joy. Everything you’ve learned has only fuelled your delusions. You are the Napoleon of conceit, an emperor of denial. Every situation calls for anxious new equations – can you make a bid for the centre of attention? Will you play it safe on the central reservation? You get your jollies brow beating your victims with the ten cent words you borrowed from Readers Digest. You’re a passive – aggressive pick pocket with a treasure chest of petty triumphs.
You celebrate your skirmishes in the isolation of your fantastic dramatic reconstructions; you told them good – they sure know now. You are one in a million, a prince among paupers. You’ve turned egotism into an art form and all your vices into virtues. But your mind is crowded with recollections of cringing servile retreats in the face of forces cognizant of your minor league status.
Your house of cards folds its hand when your bluff is called. Those moments of embarrassment last an eternity in the dark hallways of your memory. It’s then, in the concealment of your empty bed, that the snagging doubts tug at your heels. They drag you down into the depths of the sullen certainty that you are merely a tin god, and a hollow man.
