we silly humans attempt to hide our vices from others
so we only have ourselves to whom to whisper lies.
lines in hands worn white with the dust of books I do not have the time to read.
lungs rusty with smoke, throat coated with a fine fire of whiskey,
dreams dangled before my eyes,
a child's mobile with only slightly more mature themes after which I may drool and pine.
buxom blonde barbacks strut their slender midriffs around my icicle eyes,
hips hugging that hint of sex,
whose simple tickle has little to do with love
and much to do with nothings whispered but insincere.
it's my dick in my pants
it's my empty pint glass
it's diaper prices these days
it's society at large
it's my stagnant pond of ennui
it's my sociopathy
it's someone else's fault,
i swear
all the time
and blame it on my parents
on George Carlin
on our Beta machine and boxes of ambiguous thrift store recordings
on my father's stoned biker buddies
on the sixties
on the ninties
on MTV
on middle school, high school, public school, college
on punk kids, on adults, on the liquor
I blame it on the whispering winds
whose influence cannot be discounted
as easily as a hangover
or hanger-on.
That sly, hungry stare of a predatory beast,
which I prefer to the fallout of their makeup in the morning.
That love-all, fuck-all apathy of today's nymphomaniacs
dressed up like baristas, construction workers, suits, skirts,
judges, jurors, executioners.
Anyone's cord can be kinked.
Oh, the tell-all tits of those with too much in their mouths
and not enough on their minds. I'd like to come all over their tomorrows
and then feign guilt 'cause I'd feel none.
(see ennui, see sociopath,
see man, see man run, see man ruin everything)
if everyone loves you, then you're fucked for sure.
if no one loves you, sure it hurts, but your poetry gets better
hands hairier
heart hollower
head heavier
but everything is easy 'cause
there's purpose in everything you do
even when you feel sorry for yourself
you miserable shit
you cad
oaf
bumbler of other's love.
do we try to change what's inside? because we don't approve?
or is it easier to learn to accept that which used to bother us about ourselves?
move on to the next thing we decide to loathe, regret alter about our selves.
personally i find it hard to find the time to feel much shame or guilt.
where's the productivity in self-abasement? what a waste.
i can worry about how others feel without caring what they may think of me or my actions.
i can care about and for myself at the same time as i ask extremes to dance, push limits around, live on a few of those rumored edges.
Labels: Poems
