2009
09.14
what to expect for a sunday dinner
but good stews and news and other such
things that invoke happiness, comfort
for the week
albeit these recent dinners of sunday
writhe with pain and suffering of souls
your troubles and toils are rubbing off on
all those around you
your transparent skin tone is scathing my spirit and
all the ones you love.
so then shackles?
if we don’t we may regret it
slim tapers burn down as you say you will taper…
off.
and my hands are all covered in hot
burning wax
while i try to sleep on a sunday
remnants of sunday dinner with or without you
flash through my mind while
once more we are struggling
you’re still drifting under and
dripping with senseless blather.
but i know you’re there somewhere
and we’ll find you
2009
09.14
Let us now speak of a man.
A man who smells of showers lost, forgotten.
A man who smells of cigarettes defunct.
Overflowing ashtrays fill his table space
Scotch bottles scattered, filled with empty.
Half empty.
Nicotine stained fractals splash the carpet
Mandelbrot?
No.
Marlboro.
American Spirits haunt the hallway
Camels canter among the clutter.
Deep breaths taste of distress here
Misanthropic maladies permeate here
Fatigue and manifest destiny coalesce here
Within him intelligence emanates
counted among his countenance
Illness swells from his commonplace
Manic decompression
Lost things known dear to him
Abandonment ensues
Pursuing the victim
The benevolence of his intent
Lost in elucidation
His actions intense
He is lost and confusion immense
I see him now.
I see him now.
I see him now as his son.
As his son.
As his savior.
His savior for the benefit of none.
His savior who can not die for his sins.
His savior who will not die for his sins.
His savior that must live in spite of his sins.
His savior absolving sins since the 8th living year.
I can not be his savior any longer.
I will not be his savior any longer.
No, Father.
No.
That responsibility lies with you.
One day I will forgive.
For now I must let go.
Let you go.
The pain is yours.
Yours alone.
Alone.