Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 19, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

4-19-04 8am monday

i've none such idols,
never have;
no heros to worship,
no saviors to
hear my prayers;

perhaps that is my problem -
maybe therein lies my void,
but no matter,
much too late now
to amend;

i've none such dreams,
never have,
no goals to accomplish
for satisfaction;
maybe that's my defect;

my unwillingness to
strive or plan,
evenso regardless,
what to do about it
since, that is who i am.

all i've had is love,
each one stronger
than the next,
but it is a false god,
it does betray me so;

shines its sun
down upon me briefly,
then snatches it away,
leaving me to wither
in its shadow;

laughing as i die another day.

4-19-04 9am monday

from that very first kiss you've already pulled off its wings. and everafter it keeps flailing and trying to fly. too stubborn to accept. for so long it goes on like this. diving and crashing. and not until every one of its bones has been broken does it finally give up its quest.

9:22pm 04-19-04 monday

november. i can't imagine another november. i'm still getting used to april. that's the trouble with seasons. by the time you get used to them they're ending. and you start the process all over with the next one. spend your life getting used to because nothing is permanent. nothing but death. hell, we don't even know for sure that is.

why november. because the spongebob movie comes out in november. if i don't go to the theater to see it, then it comes out for me who knows how much later.

the ceiling fan is on again. seems i never turned it off. i know the autumn and winter happened. i have memories attached to them, but they appear like tv shows in my mind. survivors and fear factors. realities, but falsified. contrived. as if i was only a spectator watching to see the outcome. rooting for some stranger from the confines of my darkness. and then the finale happened and i went back to just sitting. not looking or seeing. and then again a new season.

2007. imagine that. what will i do. where will i be should it ever come to pass. the silvery raised type on the expiration date of the credit card taunted like those terrible math problems about two trains travelling in opposite directions.

how much older we tend to get just by sitting watching the minutes pass. how easy it would be to sit down in a movie theater and just never leave. the surround sound crackling in my ears seeming as real as anything. the giant screen flaunting heros and true love unyielding. the wistful meanderings of poets hearts sold for some bucks.

i just want the nights to forget me. and the days as well. the air to not let me breathe it. for just once for something to listen to me. instead of scoffing. or scolding. understand. believe.

i was a virgin once. not that long ago. not just to intercourse. but also to love. the latter being so much more of a loss than the previous. to never know. to never feel such a weight on your soul. life might be easy then, except that if you haven't you long to know. because you're inundated with it in every movie and novel and tv show. because it's all that every song and every poem is about. it permeates the human race like some relentless plague.

it's so hopeless. if you've never known it you grieve for that. if you have, worse yet. you sit all alone and tinker with the gears inside your head. but the engine was always running. your foot just refuses to press the accelerator pedal again.

idling as you do, in your closed walled dismay. your disenchantment gives off poison fumes. you die and die again. always hoping the next death will keep you. knowing someday it has to, but scared. frightened it will always refuse.

i read her. her plight. from hopeful to an endless bad dream. then recovery. then relapse. and suicide eventually. i read her and though the fears and the grief rang true. there were gaps. thoughts i couldn't understand. a hysterical loss of self-control i've never had.

in my head every arbitrary thought sounds so poetic. then i go to type it out and they so often really aren't. in my mind when they come they're accompanied by grieving piano chords and weeping guitars. they sound just like perfect music until i have to look at them.

4-19-04 monday 10:36pm

everything i do is bad for me and yet here i am healthy as can be. i smoke. drink way too much coffee. and so much beer. and the news people keep threatening me with cancer and death, but hell if it actually happens.

saddest part is, all those clean living people always seem to die the quickest.

i hate the media. how it lies and never has to confesss. how its blatant propaganda goes on unchecked. it's just another tool of big government. and the majority of this herd of amercians keep on eating it up. lapping at the urine like its wine. they're so willing to drink piss if a guy on tv tells them it isn't.

they blame music. and movies. and sex. they blame everything except themselves for the monsters they've bred. they demand v-chips and restrictions cause they can't be bothered being good parents. they continue to vote in their elections for the one of two evils as if.

i shouldn't care at all since. but foolishness infuriates me. they just complain and complain and complain and never do anything to change it.

it's just a stepford nation of stepford people.

thomas jefferson once said a revolution is neccessary every hundred years or so to keep government in check. to keep the power in the peoples' hands. because power is a drug far more addictive than niccotine or heroin. and these are the addicts this nation's voters keep electing. and worse still, they just open their mouths and swallow whatever excrement they crap into them.