Friday, October 22, 2010


Something akin to that super-fast pop a light bulb makes
A volatile ammonium-nitrate burn in an open wound
The feeling of being struck, intentionally, in the head
These are my memories you.
That ire of resentment that you harbor as a badge
Like a trash ship frigate in an extended stay on port
You love me like a tree that bears fruit
You consume it
And pat yourself on the back for the wonderful job you believe you have done
All the while diluting yourself
That nothing can grow without the misery you cause
Putting yourself between everything, unnecessarily
Belie-ing  my reality that you are obsolete
and dependent upon the fruit of the misery-tree

& I have to admit, it is quite addictive.

I think of you as the bad dream, I never wake from
Where satisfaction is knowing that you have left your mark,
On, an within me
A certain pleasure I imagine
Of knowing that in the dirge of my life
Half of the lines are committed to you

As the eyes ignite in the hatred
you had for my father
in the pretext that if you can damage me
in some celestial carnage way,
it could echo back to him

but he’s fucking dead, and he never cared

unfortunately I will stand at your casket
As your pickled heart outlives
The countless lives of the friend you don’t have
Because you could have any
Because you were 20 and with child.

I look forward to that day and imagine purchasing the cheapest, stupidest, poorest specimen of Lagerstromia Speciosa

But even I have more heart than that.
And more empathy than to give something as bad a start
as you gave me.

No comments:

Post a Comment