Dark Poetry Prose Poetry March 12, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

7:33pm 03-12-04 friday

cop cars on friday nights. in little communities. without sirens. just flashlights. in some parts of the world even crime is silent. even violence is quiet.

anything else besides. anything, but. perhaps tomorrow, just not tonight.

it spoke just like a bard. walked just like bird in flight. as if language lived to serve it. as if gravity did not exist. but as sure as it was. as powerful as it had become. it became a threat to itself. it was invincible, imperviable to everything except its own presense.

i'm not miserable enough to write that well. or maybe just not admitting to it. but it's not so little that i can just sit and not type. i'm not quite miserable enough that i could try to make you feel my pain. but still i'd like someone to understand. to hear me. i just don't always know quite how to say.

i almost wish that i had you to write about again. that slow mutation of lovers into friends. doesn't sound all that sad unless you've been one of them.

8:54pm 03-12-04 friday

alone too is relative. like size is. just as time is measured by how much you've already collected. alone is relative as well. because all those happy people with their satisfying lives wouldn't last a minute in mine.

but then again the fact remains, they most likely wouldn't allow it to stay this way.

warm and sludgy like a habit too sturdy. one weekend too many. it fills my pores. infects my skin. oozes its pus all over my feigned stoicism.

just couldn't wait for you as i did him. because like it or not i'd learned the lesson. just couldn't ever need it that much. because intentionally or not i retained that wisdom.

it's a shame to think that every experience will lessen those that might come after it. but it happens. below the surface of those frothing emotions the heart remembers every event in some sub-cellular aspect. it won't offer you words. it won't impart a memory. it's just a hesitation in each movement. an inability to feel quite that good again.

i wonder sometimes, if i were actually to leave, those pages left behind - what would they tell the world about me. the images and the context. the rankings and the links. the colors and the images all superimposed atop the skeleton of my grief.

alone is relative. and sadness is a well. lick it like ice cream in the winter. feel the freezing in your chest. drop it like rarely placed expletives. the emphasis on relativity, but there's more to it than that. yes, i can deal with it. always have. but why should i have to. yes, i can manage, but i don't see the use.

9:13pm 03-12-04 friday

not tonight. as i recall. not ever i suppose. not ever again. since i've already scaled that wall.

not for your benefit. neither for my own. just life neglecting its duties. just life striking against management.

i write a lot more lately than i used to. maybe cuz i have nothing better to do. or maybe because there's so much to say that the voice tends to refuse.

i write because there's so much i've learned that i never intended to. because masturbation is the only way i've ever made love. because unlike sex with someone else, i can feel just how i want and know that it's all true. because even though i've done it, two people struggling to extract orgasm out of otherwise useless organs is an affront to this poet.

9:39pm 03-12-04 friday

how old am i if i've lived so little happiness and felt sadness so very much. how old am i now that every chance at happiness lied. how old can i be that life has forgotten what it was.

calculate your worth by the children that you birth. or else by the size of your business. how many employees you maintain. calculate your worth by any means neccessary. just so long as it comes out positive. at least for the time being. if only for the time being it is.

call me a shark because i bite for no reason other than something's moving in the water. because i'm always hungry. and the scent of blood is so attractive to me. call me me a shark because i'm so like one. but even sharks are vulnerable to fishermen and chum.

there's nothing else to do except write now that one won't take me and the other i refuse. and in reality i'm tired of writing. i'd rather have something more exciting to do. but the one is off limits and the other just makes it much too obvious that it's just sex. the one was quite passionate, but already taken. and the other had no such limitations, other than the kind self-imposed.

i could listen forever to the sad choruses that drone on from my computer through to my speaker's cones. the intricate vibrations that produce notes and lyrics enchant like a magicians illusion. how they do that i sort of know, but i don't really care how so much as if so.

in truth i want to stop writing. to have nothing more to say. in truth i want to find something that makes all these morbid lamentations seem a pardoy of yesterday.

but no such luck. no such kindess prevails. just life stuck in the mire it entails. the mud it slings so thick and gritty. the ways with which it chooses to teach seem unneccessarily brutal. i could've learned just as well had it not been so harsh. and in truth, i never really wanted to learn at all. i just wanted to be like the rest of them. stupid and ignorant and happy. i could've learned with lessons less severe. but in truth, i never really wanted to learn at all. i just wanted to be like the rest of them. unwise and unafflicted and happy with all of life's conditions. that's all i ever really wanted, but it never wanted me.

10:16pm 3-12-04 friday

how?

how'd i lose myself so much more than i lost them. how'd anger mutate into despair. how did writing become life. how'd sex suffice for love.

how'd anything about life occur. how did all those breaths exit and enter my lungs. how's the question. and the answer is what.

how?

like a distorted reflection. dark black lines on white paper. pen and hand united in a common quest. to simplfy and to offset.

how?

it remains to be told. like stories that end abrupt. like movies you know will have a sequel.

so many ways to question. so few reasons to answer them. because all your sad notations stand alone in the end. like bottles emptied on long weekends. like sex without a reason. you did it. you can't forget. but you wish you hadn't. the words are frightfully true, but still there are lies in every sentence. times nuzzles close, but you shun its advances. the night tries to remove your skin, but its affections are shallow. it's intentions so selfish. and as much aas you need the contact, still it just won't do.