weeks pass
without a word
and
I find myself
swirling the drain
death rattle in throat
wondering what happened
to my deceny or sense of purpose.
Abandoned,
cold,
lonely,
and that's not a new
collection of
feelings
or
just a broken-down
cliche
like a junkyard Confederate Charger
rotting in rust
or seling for ten mil;
there is no difference.
A writer
a saint
or the whore on the streets
begging for your plastic afffection;
more of the same.
The soft surrender
of indifference
greets me at
the door.
Love is a bear whose jaws
I did not taunt,
Guranteed to out-run
my competition;
safety.
The old joke is broken,
who runs from a warm embrace,
and who dares turns their back on
a person with enough of their heart
to kill them where they stand?
So strange I remember you,
my lovely, failing ghost,
it was never personal,
or permanent;
nothing is.
I've watched as the sluts become
saints
on a stage serving as filthy, holy, pedastal
held up by the dirty
thoughts
corrupts twenties
stuffed into tight
revealing
g-strings,
falling off without
a moment's notice.
No one questions the moral judgement
of anybody with the body
of a goddess
when it is
revealed
for
your
viewing
pleasure.
Leave that conversation for the uninspired
peasents at a social gathering
who put forth the image of social
deceny
as if society was decent,
or for your partner
and their friends
when you are
put on the spot.
At least you can save
by speaking out of your
second mouth,
two face.
I noticed a mentor become a maniac,
and he will revert back to the hero,
when cocaine makes him a martyr.
A martyr for what cause?
Well, who cares,
the cause never mattered,
society is full of the coldest wars,
stand-offs with no rhyme or reason.
I could never say it to you,
not yet,
despite how much I've
been thinking about it.
I just don't know how to say it,
how to express it in general.
Time does not exist with these thoughts,
they are so heavy they've pulled time down,
not just a helpful anchor to keep it stable,
rather a rope creating an eye for the storm,
which has now ended stability entirely.
Something is broken,
and we can feel it,
as sure as we can feel
every pin and needle in our
heads that are in and out of
consciousness.
It's there,
trust me,
it's there,
even if there
doesn't really exist,
it's more of a subjective place,
a GPS could never take you to.
Now then,
it's a big place,
with hidden chambers,
and everything is fucked up.
It sounds like the real world,
doesn't it?
Except "there" is where every
failure of moral judgement,
shattered dream and lost hope,
god-awful screw up that made you
wish you were fucking dead
has escaped to.
Those things live "there,"
even when you aren't around,
too bust strolling in the corridors
of life,
where thingss are safe,
and nothing is out to hurt you
in any way that matters.
The physical is nothing,
weak, soft, pathetic,
like a fluffy bunny,
no claws at all,
wait til the hounds of
"there," or hell,
or Baskerville,
or whatever you want to call it,
come calling.
You are weak,
soft,
and pathetic,
stuck here,
while everything
important is happening
there.
So why am I here,
writing these words?
Weak,
soft,
and pathetic.
Night is a cruel mistress,
always tempting one to,
misbehave,
when health and sanity,
cry out for sleep.
Sleep is a ghost dancing,
an outline visible,
intangible,
but it exists enough,
to speak of.
Sleep runs down a dimly-lit tunnel,
shaking and juking,
around each corner on the
winding road leading
to nowhere fast
and just far enough down
the rabbit
hole
to make one question
which way is up
although down is more important
at least on cold nights.
Andy Veilleux 