Real poets don’t make lasting friends
they shun fraternity
Their truth like gritty sandpaper
abrasive when intoned
The reader may be gratified
with what the words uncover
More likely though the pain involved
— will cut them to the bone
(Dreamsleep: February, 2024)
Denying us a reply
Does many faults imply:
That you do wrong routes ply
And don’t knowledge supply…
Is it about bundles
He lazily trundles:
Appointments he had missed
But remorselessly hissed?
Was it that he had fought
And more Bloodletting sought
Or the way he chuckles
While watching Who Suckles?
Starve me you do response
And self in chair ensconce;
On words playing for puns…
Like Gone Simon Templar
You could things make simpler:
Why did you, at last, part
With Albert Bonaparte?
Who believe to be alive,
on this earth after death.
Who crave fame, Rial or crown,
hard to be a savior of mankind.
Decisive fatwa from best findings,
Grand Ayatollah blackclothed.
Mourning in the morning,
a lot of verses are amusing.
What he did to simple Mark
With a sword
Left him with a complex mark
In a ward …
Endless cries of “Oh! My lord “
“I’ve broken somebody’s spinal cord.”
Before then, parading a rifle4
But from his Dad getting eyeful,
Who would a begged laughter stifle
As blood-letting isn’t a trifle.
She is cutting again...
The stainless steel razor is hope pressed against her skin
She wants to stop
but the pain eludes the truth.
she will try to stray from the mutilation
but the disease will call again
until she reaches for the reflective bliss
She digs it into her skin
focusing on the discolored flesh
reality begins to slip away
and she is once again pulled in
the sound of torn skin is a symphony now
and the only thing keeping her warm
is the blood running away from it's source
and as she lies on the bathroom floor
her heart pumping harder
her arms burning with satisfaction
she smiles
the metallic smell is a perfume
that allows her to drift into her world
of lies and "make believes"
she grabs for the blade again...
...and she bleeds
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