right in front of me
i watched a man pull pepsi;
half drank; from garbage.
and i thought how we think we’ve all been there.
to justify the sight of melancholy.
half smoked butts, or bowls,
or a pair of jeans all week:
for week on week on week.
or hoping things are better today.
walking to the store,
with no money for gas.
or preferring black coffee:
haven’t fit milk in the budget for months.
pretending you can
sympathize with other lives
that face true hardship.
or watching the birds of the balcony,
seeing things are better today.
It’s hard to differentiate the sad from the happy if both are caused by the same entity. What more can a man do but be torn through each transition, wondering how the next day will develop.
Lost in his own mind, scurrying about for meaning and reason, alas, it vanished in the abyss that is his cerebral cortex. It comes as no surprise that retribution for the pain is paid in full, yet there’s nothing to say that isn’t even creating a difference.
Let the two divide and finally maintain a differential to diagnose each ailment and treat in such matters.
Begins on harsh whispers
Never fully formulated
But ever present in the eyes
Violently screaming the unspoken truth
Oh so loud-
-SO LOUD it’s left creating
This dream I have, begins and ends in a building.
Just me and five other men who are all now dead.
All inspirations to me but stuck doing the same job as I do.
There is Ginsberg,
Stroking his cock and balls
Explaining the benefits of enrolling.
There is Poe,
All dark and Goth
Refusing to call people because his crying will stop, nevermore.
There is Kerouac,
The ringleader even here
Smoking his joints, writing from memory and not fucking caring.
There is Thompson,
Chronicling every detail somewhat drunk-mostly tripping.
There is Bukowski,
looking like shit-drunk and lonely-
fucking some broad at his desk, groaning not talking.
Then there is me
Trying to work
But utterly failing with this cacophony so damn deafening.
This Dream I have, I think it’s telling me something.
These 5 men are sending me subliminal frequencies.
But that’s a secret that I wont let out here.
The poets wept
The drinkers drank
The stars bled
And the rest fled
What’s left here in the end
Is simply the best of the worst
The unknown dreams of the ones who didn’t care
And the ghosts of the dead
All the bridges have burned
With no hope no religion
All money and only fame
Everyone else elated on the med
Stuck in a loop of a neo revolution 9
Making sense of rubbish in gibberish
A doped up generation coddled under mother’s care
Taking in everything that they are spoon fed
It was always going to end like this
Ashen skies and blood red seas
Walking skeletons and fat pigs
Divided by cracks created in dread
The dread of what was always to come
but no one listened to what the fools said
Because the poets just wept
The drinkers just drank
The stars just bled
And the rest just fled.