You were hungover in your petri-dish
Trying to develop a bit of culture.
But the bacteria smelled like a dead fish
And attracted another vulture.
You went out – alone – into the woods
To write some romantic poetry.
Ya’ know, the kinda’ stupid shit that goes like:
“O! This rain, how doth it pour’st”.
But you were side-tracked quite quickly,
Startled by the serendipity,
Heart-fucked by the tranquility
That you stumbled upon in that forest.
And wearily, wobble-legged, you wandered
Deeper through the trees
And for what felt like a day, you pondered
How to write out scenes like these.
Without planning, you left the city,
Got away from the towers and the flats
To get lost in that stranger named Nature
And eaten by the bobcats.
But those city-slicker boots
Wont help you on your walk,
And you brought a dictionary
But can’t hear the trees talk.
So, it seems like you’ve made a mistake
In going where the crows flock.
Sometimes playing the blues subdues me,
Even though it usually just hurts.
Sometimes it dribbles out in droplets,
But far more often it gushes and squirts.
She said: “I don’t read fiction,
It leads to romantic addiction,
And I’ve been staying clean the best I can.”
She added: “And please, don’t call me.”
Then she drove down to Raleigh
And hooked up with another man.
So, he refilled his old cup
In the bed of his pickup,
Engine running while he planned.
His teeth were burning from the friction
Of chewing his whole bottle of prescription
Medication, then he joined a blue-grass band.
He played the harp and the fiddle.
And he thought that he heard a little
Of her voice through the folky twang.
But it was a musical mirage
That bled through the door of the garage.
No band-mate heard her when she sang:
“You really fucked this up, honey,
And no amount of time, charm or money.
Could ever set it straight.”
And though her soft, simple diction
Accurately portrayed his affliction,
He still didn’t think that it was too late.
She gave him half a silver token
Unless a word was spoken
To tear it open
Buy a bandage
And some lotion
Helps with the burn
That people call “heartbroken”.
He took a backwards fall
Into the same shit-cycle of alcohol,
Needles dull and unclean,
Passed out, lit cigarette,
Cools it off with a Percoset,
Main-lines under the skin,
Pops another Vicodin,
He fades off, getting flaccid
But then those two-tabs acid
Hits him in his coke-shrunk dick
And he feels fucking sick.
Puncture-point back-draw looks black and sappy,
“Cold blooded” he guesses, feeling scrappy.
Smokes some weed to cut it loose,
Ties another love-knot noose
– Dare we say it? –
He might just be happy.
It was a rather soft nudge
That pushed you off on your trudge
Down that endless, lonely road –
But you were missing a crutch.
Only had her sweet-time melody
That limp left leg memory
Of something you can’t touch.
Got way too drunk last night,
Had those whiskies double-fisted,
Liver spot-wash away the memory
Of missing someone who never existed.
He crimped his breath for thirteen days
Until the vacuum cracked his lungs;
He clamped his jaws through rude “says”.
And held half-a-thousand tongues.
But – if we’re talking core bare-bones
(Cutting it down to utter simplicity)
It wasn’t his addictions, or love of the “alones”:
It was because he was thoroughly shitty.
That’s a nice cut
On your chin, there.
How’d you get it?
Fall off the swing?
It matches that chip
On your shoulder where
You hang your pity-sling.
And what a cute,
Little, shitty attitude
You have crumpled
In your clutches.
But can you hold on
To all those excuses
When both your hands
Are on those crutches?