Starts out when I’m

away from a pen it’s like flashing

lines and images.

“First haemorrhoid. Itchy ass.

Kitchen crotch prior to that.

 

And of course the new itch.

And cold sores.

Harbingers of neutered doom,

spayed before the first kiss.”

Then I get back to my keyboard and

mine as well be a dyslexic hummingbird.

That fucking poem is gooooooone sir.

Or marred beyond recognition.

This ends up reminding me of this episode of Unsolved Mysteries;

a girl took a chunk of plywood to the head.

She was on the back of a motor cycle in

some farming town and got whacked

into an ugly coma, woke up gone from sense.

Literally fucked for life. Ok, that’s not fair,

severely handicapped. She still had enough

sense to know how fucked her shit was.

Which is worse?

What a shitty existence.

And to have it all summed up

by a sub-par produced, creepy

theme-songed, episode of a mystery show.

And they still didn’t even catch em.

Small town. People are afraid.

They get interviewed in corners of dark rooms.

They get robbed of even a moment of fame.

Except let’s face it, everyone home knows about it.

You just know it.

Then I grab the camcorder

and video diary all this shit up,

even spawning

the coldsore rant.

The one about how even

without anyone to kiss

at the moment, they certainly aren’t

aiding the cause.

Then something hyperbolic

about how

it was the cancer of lips,

or the aids of self-image.

It gets worse. But it’s not unlike

being  slightly ugly or a little fat or barely poor.

a harbinger of your fate,

a cyclical reminder, and a tolerable state.

An episode of life that reoccurs.

A laugh track inserted, to keep

it from being as bad as it seems,

to claim the sound and fester with it;

being human about it.

And everyone always seems

so much more beautiful too.

When you get the little

money you have

you don’t get gramma jean

the worn, 60 year old teller,

you get Jean Grey the

19 year old angel kiss.

But at least you aren’t raped

by bombs like Baghdad

Or put to death or tortured

in Guantanamo.

Or just aware enough to realize

it’s all worth nothing anyway.

Whatever you wanna call it.

Its cheaper than therapy.

The only cure to fear of loneliness

is being

alone.

The world is divided between those who can handle it

and those who want their look, but none of the real risk.

A million dealers of the stuff that holds them in tandem,

together forever, like roids and sores; varying scales of the same instrument.