poetry

Savage Dance

The scythe told me

Your depression is a choice and a weakness

If you are a writer there are no excuses only

Discipline

The scythe is a girl who has long been a cruel woman

She judges me worse than I judge myself

Her reason lies in anger

Not the rumpled clothes sort

The burning brand of not getting what she feels entitled to

And that is me

I have told her

But she holds me close and afar and plays me with her passive aggression

I am not able to exit the game

Though it exhausts me and is

A sharp tasting whip

Sometimes it feels like

She captains my life and I am a boat

Continually drowned by stormy seas

People would say

It’s easy … just break the chains

Walk away

Tell her to go hang

Lose my number

Go fuck yourself

But I can’t do it

I have a matchbook heart

Strike me once

And I’m in it for the long haul

The perfect patsy

A groveling bullseye

It only reinforces a sense of self hate

Which she stirs with bolognese

Sadists are usually unaware

Of how much they practice their art

In every card game

She pinches, pushes and pulls

I am a lopsided puppet

The times I tried to

Go it alone

Ended badly

Sometimes the Devil

Is the only hand in the dark

And not many of us are brave enough to release all toes

Fall away without harness

Especially when it takes most of what we possess

Just to survive

So she has my life in her rubber bands

Every day she yanks me to my knees

With the nostalgic ejubulence of a professional killer

It is I fear

A form of savage dance

And only one of us will survive

Sometimes I catch myself wishing

She’ll go first

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poetry

China doll

love-doll-sex-orient-japan-silicone-4

To the man who is not going to get what you want

surgically enhanced tiny Asian girl with inflated breasts and pout

who will never desire

your greying belly flopping over uncool tweed

which you half realize when you consider

the absurdity of your haggard reflection

what you don’t envision, the harm of your penchant for fantasy

and how

you may be married but whilst you stray in your mind and locked bathroom

you are only half inhabiting the woman who promised

for better or worse

it is she who really wanted you

the one you now, judge with diffidence and boredom

while you build a private world for what you can never have

if you had money you could possess

but it still wouldn’t be real

only you wouldn’t care a damn

so long as she let you worship

you’re not fussy about emotion

an ” exotic” is worth more than loyalty or devotion

you’d trade your wife in without hesitation for

a new model with adjustable thighs

you can stuff her where she hasn’t yet been stuffed

have your dark-eyed children bound for Harvard

mount her on your wall, the eastern trophy of your success

who cares if she used you more?

despised your flacidity and milky sour breath

did you never catch her revulsion of you?

or was that half the fun?

now you’re on the wrong side of sixty

clawing for something bigger than yourself

every Sunday you proclaim it is God

then whack off in the bathroom thinking

of her glossy head bowed in prayer and what you’d do

given half a chance

you have lost your shame believing nobody can see the machinations of your lust

only they are visible and nothing else

not even the veal of your fatty heart

and she who would be your prize would laugh

chooses a younger man and gets a Masters in Economics

now you only have images of her to grope on-screen

hiding the stains on your underwear behind the heater

inwardly your ache becomes a boil ready to burst

infecting all that could have been good

at night, digging in disappointment

turning to your wife who opens her arms

feeling none of her love

touch you

this is the way of your modern

marriage

three to a bed

you, she and in-between

pornographic fantasy

her almond eyes and lithe legs

begging you to pierce your foundation

for playthings and illusion

the china doll

your fantasized upgrade

on faded obsessions with youth

and the grandure of coveting

empty images of passion

 

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