Friday, December 17, 2010

The Art Of Beating A Dead Horse

Strewn about a rusted bucket
The grinder's teeth are a distant memory
Fading from life.
I'm so used to cinder blocks
And atomic bombs strapped to my back
That the ocean floor is now my lover.
My deep blue everything.
She injects disease into my skin
When suicide notes get too boring.
Another night snorting ashes of dead poets
Has diluted my blood to the point of enigma.
They'll never identify me among the waste
This gutted city screams with every gust
They carry the torment to daycare centers
And animal shelters for the sick
The mind is a labyrinth of numbers
I find myself counting cliffs like black sheep
Under the overpass and over the fence
Childhood wonders as if it's normal
I've satisfied the bloodthirsty onlookers
Now staring at my reflection in the sun

1 comment:

  1. I suffer from stupidity and moral decay, so I have little hope to offer, but, if you can see it and describe it, I bet it can be beaten back.