Word Verification

I don't know about you but I've found the nonsense words on Word Verification for post comments interesting.  Some of them almost seem as if they might make some profound sense.  So, following an idea I've been thinking of a while I thought I'd write a poem using some.  Be prepared.  It's really effed up.

*****

The Mutwar thinned the herd

And made us purer. I feel my blood

Rejuvenated as the filth is gone.

My heart, however, feels the toll;

I feel it twerse for having had

So many friends now dead.

Ralloco ground them into

Fertilizer; Scessi sleeps

Beneath the pumpkin patch.

I still hear her screams at night;

She was a bliede, drenching the

Landscape in her blood; tearing me

Apart, perhaps a little more than her,

As I caress my Unsul; that void where

Life and love had lived with laughter.

But now will pine and mourn

For what I’ve done and can’t undo.

Catharsis

I'm of the opinion you can write until you feel better.  Note, of the opinion.  I'm not sure if it's true.  I tried it tonight.  It's nice to get the feelings out.  As always, as grizzly as they get, I'll share them here, because you're all supportive and lovely like that.

*****

I’m fresh out of metaphor;

Eat my shit. Just let me be.

There’s nothing left and

It seems as if there never was.

Damn. Goddamn it all.

I’ll sin my heart out;

I’m in hell already.

A bullet to the brain

Can only bring me back.

What options do I have?

Listen to the endless drone of platitudes

Or drown myself in alcohol?

Fuck my heart and

Fuck my soul; already raped,

Torn, discarded, left to die.

I need a minute, month or decade,

Can’t be sure. Time will only scar;

A poor excuse for healing; yet all

That I look forward to.

Because I'm a Fuck-up

This poem is featured in Ben Ditmars' chapbook of poetry, Night Poems. Available on Amazon for Kindle and Print.

The words aren’t right.

They never could be.

Because I’m a fuck-up.

It all seems insincere.

I try to back-track.

Can’t convey.

It’s all the truth;

It seems a lie.

Because I’m a fuck-up.

My laugh is hollow;

Echoes off your face,

Retracts, jams down my throat

To choke me as I gasp, you watch,

Considering your next move; to save,

Or let me die.  But you know the latter

Has more solace in the end for me.

Because I’m a fuck-up.

The Vote!

I've set up a poll to vote for our Blogger Book Club's book.  I was thinking we could start in November and have a month to read.  I added a book by Toni Morrison I didn't put in the original list with a description so I hope that's okay.  No hard feelings?  Really?  I tried so hard!  Just kidding.  Have fun voting!  The polls close Midnight on November 1.  So the night of October 31st.

The Day Hope Died

Note: I don't really like this poem, so I don't really expect you to either.  If you could try and just not hate it though, I'd feel pretty good.

*****

July 27, 2003–

The day Hope died,

Left us with a quiet frown,

Trickles of slight tears

To know the end had come

Expectedly yet suddenly.

We were raised on Hope,

Singing, laughing as the world

Began to take more than it returned;

An empty ended hourglass where we

Could see the sand and almost touch

But never quite as we believed in Hope;

Somewhere now the dream’s alive,

Unburied, still performing for the ones

That need it most to take another step.

In Dedication to Mr. Roberts

I first met the acquaintance of Mr. Percival Roberts on the dreariest of dreary April days. His long tailed coat was, as always, immaculate; far superior to rags which, I’m not ashamed to say, I wore to the occasion. The first words he and I would ever speak were not most pleasant. I was a famished, sickly, meager soul who saw a beacon shining through my misery. “Mr. Roberts,” I began, begging at his feet, “Might you help a poor man eat today?” His face showed immeasurable contempt. “Be gone, filth!” he spat, pushing me to the ground and going on his not-so-merry way. I never forgot the occasion. Nor would I remain as destitute. Through perseverance and a little luck, I fought my way to higher ranks. It came to be in time, my standing equaled Mr. Roberts even. Thus, when he passed away the local gazette asked if I might dedicate a word or two to the late, departed industrialist. I looked deep and gave them three: fuck that guy.

100 Word Prose Poem on My Dancing Friend

He shows up once a year. To dance. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t think. He moves. His body speaks the poignant words his lips can never manage. Passion manifests itself in snap and groove. Love is made; hearts are broke, each step by step. Sleepless nights and days in bed get told through his eyes; the angle of bent hips. Hair becomes the breeze; shoes an ancient rhythm as common as the birds that sing; he’s been doing it as long. A groove to come and go each Spring; immortal like the sky. Constant, fleeting, footwork past the February cold.*

*Yup. A Spring poem in Fall.