He's a manic
He's a maniac
He styles his world
To fit his image
Upon seeing others'
Dissatisfaction with his
He blames them
Trims them down
with words of hatred
Fit to sound like love
Styled to his perfection
Yes, a true wolf
In sheep's clothing is he
A pious, pompous fool
Who believes in his own righteousness
When he's right
When he's wrong
Whatever goes right or wrong
Whoever he hurts
He's the man
He's there in my life
He's there in yours
Torturing you and me
To no end until
One of us realizes
The one really hurting is
His father, his mother,
Or maybe a disgruntled teacher
Treated him that way
And now that's the only way
He knows how to treat people
It's hard as hell
And sometimes fruitless
But to pay the pain-in-the-ass in kind
Is to play his game, to wear his tailored sheep's clothes.
The only way to break his spell
Is to try to understand his pain
And find out where he's coming from.
Sometimes that entails acts of kindness
And sometimes it means telling him to fuck off.
Telling someone to fuck off is sometimes
The greatest act of kindness.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
You can kill me, babe
But you'd better do it with some conviction.
Let out the fiercest roar you can roar
As you let the knife plunge deep into my twisted heart
Watch carefully my eyes as they take one last look at your ailing face
Savour the brightness of my blood as it meanders aimlessly down my breast
Take one last suck at my milkless nipples
But don't go turning back on yourself
Don't think that everything isn't perfect just as you've made it
Even as my eyes roll over on themselves like rotten logs
As I drift off into sleepy death
Even as my spirit frolics along to places far away
Soaking up some last rays in Maui
A midnight stroll by the Seine
One last candlelit game of chess
Even as I make the rounds to bid farewell to my friends
(Gayly I will find a unique way to say good-bye to each of them, some in lucid dreams, perhaps a nearly transparent flash in a mirror, a poster on the wall, a whisper in a silent corner of the train station)
As for your farewell, babe, my last words will be just that
I will struggle to take one last tug at my frozen diaphragm
Reach down for my so-called last breath
Say to you without a trickle of dreaminess
"Go, dear, be free of guilt and shame!
May my blood make you stronger!
Be free like we humans are meant to be.
Fly like we were born to!
Go now, share my love with all those who will hear you!"
Then in conclusion I will smile at you, and there will be no confusion
As to my meaning or whereabouts.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Cruising down Highway 17, the authorities now heavily influenced by my existence, tailing us, onto our smell, they are aware of my every move five seconds before I make it, leaves me no choice but to do the obvious, drive faster, trouble is their pedal is heavier than my metal, means they'll have brought me down to their station before nightfall, no reason to flee, still I, restless, decisionless, pride anyway, keep the foot floored, as if praying with my feet, hoping for some angel of speed to somehow prefer me to them, maybe because I've got some funk they haven't got, some jive, some cool rhythm, or maybe simply because I'm thinking this, or maybe not: yes, probably it will just end the way it does, with a skake of repentance.
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
There is a time warp every morning right around six o'clock. For more than an instant or two time just freezes. The second hand on the clock, suddenly silent, refuses to tip downwards on its six o'clock plunge, as does the minute hand. They both stand there in mock alliance, proud of the domineering position they have over the hour hand which--although the sun has already zoomed predictably into the trustworthy eastern sky--is at its gloomiest position of the day. Hanging downward, the blood nearly dripping into its flushed face and pouring out of its eye sockets, the hour hand understands its real position, like a puppet in a political farce. He is the one everyone notices. Just about every woman and man on the planet keeps faith and time by the hour hand. And yet it is utterly and hopelessly dominated by the minute hand, who in turn is ruthlessly controlled by the second hand. Mere seconds! cries the hour hand. Yet he is hopelessly dependent on his misanthropic companion's willingness to carry on. In this prolonged minute the hour hand hangs down there helplessly, his hard heart pounding with humiliation, pining for the moment when, once again, he can begin the slow manipulated rise into his circle of influence.