imcliche

"If you love someone and they love you, don't fuck up...'cause you are left with less than nothing."

A surplus of indiscriminate venom—
         this is my stumbling block,
       my problem to fix.
  Is ego or modesty
                my mask? 
Perhaps, the answer is in the question.

        Here, I wear
              the crown of shit
     upon my liar's chair.
             I let you down.
             I made you hurt.
    There, I boiled over,
            drunk and angry, again;
          a cloud turned grey.

     The division I caused
                left no remainder;
 ashes of a dream
            scorched by nightmare...

Now, I can only
   curse the day I became
            a nothingman,
       brush myself off,
   and learn how to walk
                  carrying memories of you.

One day at a time

Cabaret or crucible?
     It's a choice,
             I suppose...
But as for today, I'm tired.
   Loneliness reared its ugly
     face in the mirror;
so I cut off my hair—
   it was a silly romantic notion
       to have felt like
                   I owed somebody.

   The fact is that I break things;
clearly illustrated by
               the smoldering ashes
      and pieces of
                     what was,
                 now past,
             debris
        left in my wake.
  I chopped down my
           beloved dreaming tree
      for firewood.
   The bridges I burned
          glow faint red,
    revealing just how green
         it was on the other side.
My syncope at
           past deeds recounted
      amounts to a feint retreat.
  I've named my sins,
          repented,
         asked for absolution;
    but the facts of my destruction
            remain.
My spiteful ego
       is no less a part in my Gestalt
   than are my empathy
           and passion.
At times, I wonder,
     could I have been anyone
           other than me?

But how do I forgive myself
           for the fear and
       bruises
                  I've inflicted?
     How do I ask forgiveness
               from those I've injured?

I cannot go back and undo.
      I am discredited.
   My vows ring out hollow,
              like empty lip service.
    I have squandered and wasted.

Take the bottle from these lying lips.
              Smash it.
     Use the shards
        and tear open my chest,
   scrape away the black bile.
        I swear there's a heart beating
                         underneath.

  Create in me
               a clean heart; renew
         a right spirit, within.

caterpillar body and butterfly brain

I've been scrubbing stains
   for the last decade,
        with steel wool and
      bleach and
         scalding water,
       cigarettes
            and a bristle-less
          toothbrush—
not that they've been effective.
  It'd be easier, i'm sure,
           if my scalp would split
        and the ten years
                    of dead skin
      and wasted talent
             fell to the floor;
but i was raised Lutheran,
          we preach Grace,
      and love the flog (in private).
Guilt
    is its own justification, after all
simul iustus et Peccator.
  Yeah, but Luther was full of shit,
                            wasn't he?
What's it mean when
           all the penthouse Christians
     earn their scars
                avoiding the painful scab?
Faith without deeds is dead,
      what are deeds without faith?

   Take me to a river
                and hold me under
           until a dove descends
                      or I turn white...

There's got to be some better way to come clean.

cinquains 2-5

revolt.

youth of today

crowded the Tahrir Square,

Arab Republic of Egypt.

raised fists.

 

borrow.

disconnected

lost laws of conservation;

one nation, undeniably

in debt.

exploit

humanity,

find cheap beasts of burden,

build a banana republic

at home

wake up,

sleeping daydream

nation, comfortably

coddled by flashing distractions,

riot!

cinquain 1

lost love,

once here, then gone;

heart break’s par for the course.

to you lucky ones, I’ll sing out,

“hail, hail.”

read this and thought

what the fuck?!

A Little Too Honest

Perhaps, you should have let me sleep.

      It’s in poor taste that I expose

    my dark side, my bad mood rising—
not a place to end, but somewhere to start.

  Absence makes the heart grow still,

         and that silence helps hide everything

             you never wanted to know.

     So, here we are, two zeros, the classic case.

Weren’t we supposed to set the air ablaze?

             Instead, it’s face to face,

           shadow box, then double cross…

       I dropped from the shot to my

                  glass jaw, and the shock to

                                my cold heart.

     But if it’s a chase you want, my angel,

                my sunbeam, let me find

             a gag and a net and

          I’ll drag you down to my level.

I’ll hold open the door, for you.  In the

    light of day, in the foyer with the

        potted plants, I’m a gentleman,

     a marquis, a smooth operator.

  Follow me down the hallway,

               to the bedroom,

         where I study philosophy

    and spiritual phrase.

         I’ll give some, to get some.

       Give me all you got, girl.

               I have an itch, I want

          scratches down my back.

      Swallow my pride and

            make me lick your boots clean;

          but leave your coat and skeletons

        in your own closet with

   your chambermaids.  I could

                 give a fuck about your dignity—

       just keep giving me that sweet taboo.

The washroom is the second door to the left,

              should you wish to feign cleanliness.

       One dirty hand washes the other hand,

         sacrilegious ceremonies,

                heaving in drains.

    I won’t forget to leave the toilet seat up.

           Yes, that’s an insult;

               mind yourself, so I

                         won’t have to injure…

      In the parlor, where lewdness

               waxes drunk and the glinted disco ball

      spins away the years, a party has started

         and everyone has gathered:

             boisterous and foolish, libertines, all.
         No place for beginners or sensitive hearts.

            The scene is tired,

                 trite,

              impious,

                   debauched,

                      depraved,

                               criminal…

God, this town is so small.

              Paraphiliacs, or hypochondriacs?
         When sentiments are left to chance

    and bedbugs are shared,
               it’s getting hard to tell the difference.

       I’ll take my leave of this and keep you

                    jealously to myself;

                and if not,

                        you can find me downstairs…

Below, in the solitude of the root cellar,

        the shrewd pariah sits

                  hiding, brooding

      in a basement of hoarded smut.

  He laughs at those who say,

      “Life is short; don’t fuck up.”

     He laughs at those who say,

              “Life is short; don’t miss out.”

           He’s far too apathetic for hedonism.

…and in the quiet of my shade tree I wonder,

                          what makes me say these things?

           In the face of disaster,

                         out comes my laughter;

          it’s this flailing, blind anger in me.

I should crawl back to my cold unmade bed.