Old and Delicate

The smell of old pages rages

Some kind of self deprecation

For years lost,

Crossed off in a notebook, unnoticed

In imagined ink

Crinkled in a wrinkled hand.

A veil of indifference cages

Some kind of self deception

In a prison head

Where daily life hits,

Misfits like a 

Bent key jamming

Into warped motel room doors.

Corridors lead me back to

Unutterable thoughts

Misshapen and unspoken in my mouth

Unformed, flaccid

Mistaken in my youth

For someone who cared.

But perhaps I did,

In a fit of stupidity and

Infinite vapidity - 

A dumpster trail,

Now ignored - 

'Cause people painted as heroes

Are typically those you should despise.

I can still smell the old pages

Turning like tricks,

Stark words, intoning nothing

As infinity dissolves in depressive eyes.

"Please don't touch me,

I'm old and delicate."

A broken bitch

Unhinged and unhandled,

Slapped with ink

And a head hissing too late

With alley cat lust.

Screwed uncontrollably

By time's rhythmed thrusts.

Overthinking is a disease

Yet no one seems to think.

In my prison head

The keys jam, frail,

Succumbing, derailed,

Dissolving in dark eyes.

"Please touch me,

I'm old and delicate."

Earliest Memories

Earliest memories

Of the same
Death complex

Mother knows best.

Earliest memories

Huddled, insane
In a rented home

Shake stained, thin walls

A histrionic mess.

They’ll kill us, you.

The bikers next door

Rev engines, Spit

Blind metallic grit

To be segued

To the death rattle

Of an X-ray machine.

Your tiny limbs, unsafe,

Pumping blood no more.

Her crying, twisted face,
Somewhat ridiculous,

Ravaged to the core,
Conveys, betrays...

I brought you here,

So why not let you know,

“Life ends in death.”

So I felt death’s cold hand

Before my mind crafted

Memories and expertly

Learned disdain

Of my own body,

Sure to rot, taught,

No - a message ingrained:

There is no escape

Except the worst kind.

Earliest memories

Of the same

Complex unfiltered

Purged from her mouth

And to keep sane

I developed a self-upholstered skill:

A strange, warpaint

To self-soothe, remove,

And reject the taint

Of her imposition.

The skill is now lost.

The decades dry out,

And time hits its drought.

And I am eaten, slowly, by

Earliest memories.

Minister Of Sinister

I wrote this poem about this weird guy that is staying with my religious culty landlords:

Minister of Sinister

I am a mentor

Touring to

Mentally help the meek

Downtrodden through bad deeds.

I am a mentor

Ordained to

Praise the six day work week while

Falling on Bible belt knees.

I spread the word with

An original sin-tainted tongue

I spread my seed

And carry a concealed handgun.

I am against a woman’s right for

Abhorrent abortions,

and I don’t pay taxes for drunks.

I travel with a tattered briefcase

And a rolled-up carpet in the trunk.

I am a mentor

Untormented

By fermented first-breath sin

I keep my hand in the collection tin.

I am the mentor,

Aforementioned.

And I despise science.

It’s so easy to sleep

When you don’t have a conscience.