The Discounted World
The Lined, Dusty Verse A poem is a eulogy for the present. Father, mother wailing strangled by fire, hallucinogen shire. The seconds slip by, drip-drop into the sea, each drop that drips down a reminder of life in my veins, a physical body that runs and remains, unlike the life that suffers and cries, unlike the life the world denies. Weeping outside, mourning for the unknown, soaking the streets, the running rivulets of a world’s sorrow. I speak to God, but don’t hear back- He has nothing to say to me. Not my problem, the Big World says, watching our neighbors get fucked in the bright light of day. Tears appear, shining on a sweetest face, shimmering like the crystal twinkle of stars lost in the giant vastness of space. My eyes forced open with fistfulls of ash, and I spin turning, and turning endlessly burning- I become so lost deep inside others, that you stick your finger down your throat and taste me. Stolen- the craft of creation leaving behind a messie...