I am obsessed crucified
on the ravages of my wrongs.
No longer balanced or sane
inside this retreating body.I was always impartial – ask anyone.
Yet there is something exceptional about
the addiction of pure untainted powder
left dressed, in virginal white lines.
My nose has long been foreshortened
resembling a muzzle –
clipped back, to keep the debris hunters away.
I am corroding on my own intoxication,
as dead as the worm in this bottle of tequila.
March 22nd 2015
Just to make it clear this is not about me – I have never taken drugs.
He tells me, that he has seen heads swiped
clean from their body.
Their aftermath, more naked than the day
that they were born.
I cling to his fragile youthful hands
swabbing the violence from the fragments of his vision.
I found him – fallen here
in this place where you know you are mortal.
The landscape no longer distinct, outside the rutted roads
now strewn with the bone remains of shrunken men.
He will have had so many expectations –
Roads to travel – girls to fill his head with lustful dreams.
What now in this shrinking of his closing pain.
What I said about this was much less, than I saw
as I took my unhappiness, and headed up the hill…
If I sit silent in this hour
will you permit me your time,
smiling politely, at the unrest of our situation?
I’ll engage you in a lullaby
wrapping your ice-covered doubts in my gently spun
feelings of this; my new found content.
Let me walk you through all of your misgivings
holding your interest one more time
in my echoing call, of your forgiving shelter.
I’ve tried so hard to tell myself you’re gone –
yet my mind remains my winter of isolation.
Roses and ice wrapped side by side
amid this space of worthless unvoiced conflict.
Do you think that some day you could forgive me,
for one last time?
Shall we meet on neutral ground with all our past,
laid far aside?
Like ashes to a graves hallow ground
believe me if you will, when I say
that I’m not asking for your disclosure of forgiveness
no suggestion of my past lovers, once loving glance.
I come searching only of one last chance
the want to renounce all my past mistakes.
For open wounds, now long since septic, feast
generously, deep amid the walkways of my isolated mind
If little else, time has gifted me an ability
to observe an expression of myself
that leaves me straight-faced cold.
For never once, (as I told you time and time again)
did I buy into your promises of trust,
such promises I told myself, were never yours to keep.
Therefore, shall I drown this silence
that echoes back your name?
– or shall I leave my words unanswered
gathered lonely on the page.
I shouldn’t complain
yet I know I will.
It makes one feel alive
in it’s puerile attempt
at kicking back at the establishment:
Like punching poor Judy
when the fault isn’t hers.It was always something to let him go
to stand, and stare without speech.
All those deformities of the body,
now railroaded into sidecars
of no desire.
How a woman’s devaluation of her own mind
is always outweighed – besides
a mans conceited outburst, of his own