Monday, April 24, 2017

"The Nauseating Sound of Emotional Vomit," in D minor

The process
of ceasing to believe
does not end with adulthood
but death.

The only pity allowed
is self pity.
And only as long as
you keep it
to yourself.


Whose life am I living?
The shoulders in this town
just don’t fit right
-a little too big for me-
and it doesn’t keep out
the wind and cold
the way I’d like…

It may be a good
deal but I’m not sure
it’s worth buying if
I might never be
in it.


Who is she,
gusty hard blowing
hot and cold blasts
down roads lined with
shoulder-to-shoulder brick buildings…

Rising off the water liked a Bond
bombshell double agent, the highs
and lows of imagination seen in her
sway as she lands on the loud streets
creating and parting the gathering
scattering crowds before her;

The hardness of the city rises
to meet, penetrate, push her away
or pull her down;
but onwards, she crawls and scrapes,
rips and glides her way to the vast
open plains beyond


I wish I didn’t need to write
to feel, to know my own self.
That feeling seen didn’t feel so
revealing, this feeling is revolting
and risking repulsion I internally cower
and cover and close-off myself.

No body wants to be
so seen
while so alone.


At what
point do
you realize
the problem
is you?

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