There Has To Be a Death

There has to be a death when two men swear murder.
There has to be a reckoning on sons not meant
to be alive, a reckoning on hateful lives,
lived by hateful hearts holding hateful thoughts,
on a black soul who bathes in the light of sunbeams
he names Grace.

There is his face staring the devil in me,
Willing me a hateful, too, and hateful do I
become; how caring absence plays out with lack
on sons not meant to thrive. On Satan with a beating heart
he walks as son, he talks in tongues, he’s not my son.
Listen to how angry, only evil can, will
talk so Base.

There has to be a death.
It will happen quick with sweet release,
Or happen slow and with it take
all peace of mind and steel of thought
that I once wished what I have got
after all the dribbling rants
forgets of names and shits of pant
what hold and why does it still grab
until the stab and great
finale.

Naught to see, maybe naught to feel,
maybe walk away
uneasy
feeling no different,
resentful, hateful,
shoes still stomping,
the Devil in them.
Well done. Two deaths.
One by dirt and one by demon
nothing human
nothing to fuck you
but you
you do and now
there has to be a death.

Cold Thoughts and the Dead

The thought of not going outside makes me not quite afraid enough and I am angry. Wanna touch the Autumn leaves or just walk down the streets with them. I don’t know any old roads here, and I don’t have fond memories of walks, but I’d like to think if I did and if I did they would be on one and they’d be there.

I read about some imagery today–produced by protesting performance–that I feel would look striking and beautiful, a blossom in memoriam for an artist I’ve frankly never heard of and I, now, have an overwhelming need to see some art. Not on my screen. On a wall, in a venue, alone, quiet. But in the winter I’ll throw paprika on snow and see if it’s as pretty as I imagine it will be.

In two hours I can drink again. And I can go outside, why can’t I.
I’m actually too sad to be angry. I have a blockage from touching anything real now, that’s how it seems.

You’ll regret not looking after your interests while you were alive while you are dead.
You’ll have regrets walking down Old Knock Road, for sure, for sure.

Weeks Notice

I've no interest in your care for love,
no interest in your life.
I don't care how you're feeling now,
not even that you're sad.
And stuff.
Can feel you cut out when She talk,
can feel the interrupt.
Can feel the walk away of our
minds like pistol shots--
we walk
--in a duel 'tween old friends who've gone
too long without the touch
of embraces regular and words
that make each of us blush.
It's such
the process, life, it's natural,
it's only normal, drab.
I've got some thingsā€¦be getting on,
I'll leave, we're good enough

The Morning

nothing when i wake up, no kiss, no love. 

maybe i’ll get scalded, maybe shoved. 

i might brush my teeth, 

or i might go walking. 

i forget if i know people, prolly won’t be talking. 

hope you’ve not left pills around. Who are you to paint my day? I don’t have a lover guiding my way. what poem always needs a sexual say.

Have it your only out.

Yeah I’m jealous. Doesn’t make you deep. Got an athlete-type infection trying to be all elite. I hate the beach.

Yours ain’t my route.