TRYING TO EXPLAIN HUMAN
LONELINESS TO INANIMATE THINGS

stares at the wall &
cries & cries & cries:
the wall doesn't understand

lonely  basement flat
the 5 o'clock train rattles
the broken teacup

apple on table
your smile bitten into it
you...no longer...there

~
It feels like the anesthetic is wearing off

This circus of machines

From coin-operated hostility

To wholesale apathy refineries

They tell us it's winter down in the subdermal

They tell us the foundation has grown weak

Dislocation is an incoming storm

Mirrors are distorted screens

Placeholders really

In a city without children

Even the statues weep

Snow upon the ground that was once blood

Now an empire without heirs

Even the trees hate us
~

if I am unbecoming all the words you’ve never read
then I can take my time while I go walking through your head
you’ll never even see me and you’ll never even know
I’ll speak into your body, may it reap what it will sow

if I am unbecoming all the traits in me you knew
then I will be the mountain you will not know how to move
you’ll never even feel me and you’ll never even think
I’ll be with you forever, every single time you blink

but

if I am unbecoming all the words you’ve ever read
then I will pick my body up and bury it instead
you’ll find me in the in-betweens, in laughter and in sighs
I’ll be in every single breath, you never will know why

"A" has all the men
40 and up
in love with her

"M" is most likely
a nun

"C" is in the CIA,
or the witness protection program
perhaps a quantum physicist

( you all know
the people
who who I'm talking about)

for all the forlorn
lovers,
who've been spurned,
I share the advice
my mom gave me
"you'll find someone else"
and so, please
don't write you are
*******
angry
or sad,
tell me you
want to ****
the son of a...*****
write about something
else...

(...you can never
go wrong
writing a poem
about
***

men,
make all the women
have big *****)

and for the paranoid poets
just because you are
paranoid
it doesn't mean that
people are not
following you, so,
BEWARE

we have a separate life
here
we exist on comments
we live
on the internet,

we:
the psychotic
the lonely,
lovers
and perverts
and dreamers,
some poets
some mystics
some saints,
most of us, tortured souls
trying to find solace
in the words we write,
and to leave a piece of us
and not fade away
like a shooting star
into the nothingness
of thin air

stains the cup if left standing,

remember the hotel, 1964,

we used to scour them especially

round the handle, then the base.