Tag Archives: depression

Epicurus Garden

The little garden park, right at first light.
It’s cool, it’s quiet, they’re all still asleep.
I have a bottle of red wine for us to share.
I have all day to spend here with you.
 When are you going to come?
 The night becoming day, becoming a promise.
It’s been so long since I slept well, missing you.
The hours we’d fill with laughter and big plans
are quiet, and I’m buckling beneath their weight.
 When are you going to come?
 The angels on their pin, the demons stalking us,
the right and true path, for us, for our broken race,
the heavens that waited for the brave and faithful,
the passions we’d use to burn down every fucking star.
 When are you going to come?
 The day wears on. The wine is warm. The sun is harsh.
Some much noise. So many people. So much crowding me.
I’ll wait until the sun falls away, I’ll wait until midnight.
I can’t face these things alone. I can’t be alone in this town.
 When are you going to come?

Sentry Duty

The rain and the cold, my fatigues soaked straight through.
Hours and hours until daybreak, and another solder to relieve me.

My fingers shiver, my teeth chatter, I hold my rifle close, stare into the night.
I’ve been here so long, such dreadful time, and it feels I’ll be here forever.

 Thoughts of my wife, and a happy, carefree life that is forever lost to me,
fill my head, break my heart, remind me how far I am from love and comfort.
 There are monsters out in this night, who slither and crawl to take us to hell.
Beasts who infect body, mind and soul. Who crush out all that is human and good.
 I must stay, keep the monsters out, I must persevere through this cold and bitterness.
I must stay, and not sit down, close my eyes, and let sleep and nothingness come to me.
 A monster is already in me, wrapping his tail around my mind and heart.
I must fight him, and his brethren, all those damnable things of fear.
 The monster in my head tightens his tail, squeezes all the venom to my thoughts.
The poison sours all the light in me, all the love struggling to light my dreams.
 I think of my wife, tender and loving and kind, with a quick laugh, soft smile.
She waits for me like I wait for morning, for relief and rest, to complete my duty.
 She waits for me, patient and devoted, and I must see her again, hold her again,
not let these monsters take us, take me, take this wonderful and sorrowful world.

She waits for me, my brothers depend on me, I must stay.
Fuck that monster!

In August Sun

James Agee Park, as the sun comes up,
a truthful ballad chewed out of a
bubble gum queen, disaffected conformist,
playing on my earbuds, soothing my undeath.
 Even a program of safe rebellion knows
heartache and abandonment, the emptiness
of knowing even those who love you the most
cannot be turned to, cannot stay awake one single hour.
 The sun is sweetest at first light, the world still
half-velvet and welcoming, and it can fool you,
as that bubblegum balllad fades out, ringing your tears
like bells, that there is still magic in this worn out life.
 The sun comes. I put up earbuds and mp3 player,
and face the shifting shoals and sucking sands,
and all the devil I feed and wish I could starve out.
The day, that loses me in the crowd, in August sun.

A Narcotic Hit of Mercy

Her faces gives me a dream, a narcotic hit of mercy,
as the train shambles and shakes like an undead corpse.
Undead corpse, unsteady on it’s feet, usnure of what is
happening. Me, the train, the undead, just stagger on.
 The billboard is big and in bright colors, her face subtle
and mysterious, like the teasing out of the corner of your
eye, smirk of an angel, giving a hit for free, so you chase
her into the vaulted snowy plains of heaven, giving her your soul.
 The model, Cara, is harsh and entrancing, full of malice and lust,
as her eyes suck me into her starlit orbit, the outlier of her psychic magic.
I give her devotion and lust and fascintion, for that narcotic hit of mercy,
to feel light and horny and mad, like when I was a young man.
 Heading home from a dirty, ugly city, and the game of pretend that is
the world of work, I silently worship her as we pass her billboard,
as she smokes the gossamer incense through my eyes, keeping herself
powerful and strong and beloved and on top of this shitty little world.
 As long as I get my hit, she can take everything……………….

Tyson Park

The bridge rumbles, even in the dead of night, with people going
on down the road, somewhere to be, something important to see.
Down below, I sit on a swing in the park playground, listening to
the crickets thrum against the noise of traffic, the dark birds coo.
The all too bright light of the streetlamps chases the shadows that
could soothe, or conceal my fear, or give a recompense to the dead.
Swing myself back in forth, as if to rock to sleep the things choking
my mind, my turbulent lust for meaning, my bleeding hate for the sun.
I came here with her, once, when there seemed hope to escape this town
and the sprawl of dead inteligience and worthless holiness and cheap love.
I can’t call her face, though she stil grips my heart like a fist, squeezes blood
that is the last remnant of youth, that will be soaked into this barren fertility.
No booze, no cigarette, not even heartbroken, lovelorn bullshit music now,
to make it seem holy and precise, clean and worthwhile, just my hot, lost thoughts.
Wait for a cop to come to chase me on back home, to that hateful cell I can’t escape.
No marrow in these memories to nurture a sweeter death, just wasted time.
Too much light to see the stars, trackmarks of the heavens, scars of infatuation.
The moon sells herself like a precious whore, no solace if you’re bored with sex.
Sun and moon, stars and night torn out in colorless strips, harvested flesh of the world.
I just want to sleep, dreamless, for it’s all worthless here for me, dreams offer nothing.

Watching From The Waves

It’s early on a Sunday, the sun not up.
Unquiet thoughts shoot around in my head
and I try to calm them with melancholy songs.

It’s early on a Sunday, and I wish a woman was
laying beside me, someone to touch and love
and to be with me as the storms roll in.

 No work so I could sleep all day, and maybe
have sweet dreams of paradise, and that
long lost love who’s forgotten all about me.
 A song about a mermaid who fell in love
with a boy, who she can only watch from the waves.
Like me she can only dream of someone.
 It’s early on a Sunday, and the sun’s not up.
I hope the anger and the fear do not come.
I hope today is a sweet day. I hope for peace.


On Henley Street Bridge, late at night as Saturday slips into Sunday,
looking at the dirty water beneath, the lights of UT campus,
and shadows that are pierced not by starlight dance in the dark.
The wind is cold and bitter, whipping this way and that and back.
My spirit, my very essence is tossed on this wind,
to just walk away forever, or to stay and remain untenably silent.
Leave. Stay. Leave. Stay. A binary single, transmitted from a Quasar
on the edge of the universe, yet as close as the sidewalk beneath my feet.
I dream of a woman, and then push it away as being useless.
I dream of an escape, and then push it away as being cowardly.
I dream of the wind, the binary decided, the sweetness only the cold gives.
I walk home.

What Is In Your Mind?

What is in your mind,
as you sit in your chair,
going between The Bible
and military thrillers,
or watching the bright day?
 You fall asleep,
or watch TV, or fidget
and get up to pace.
You’re happy when I come home
but we never really talk.
 Do angels or demons from the past
visit you in your time in the chair?
What things keep you from sleeping
at night that leave you be in the day?
What is in your mind.
 We might go out for a meal,
and you’ll flirt with the waitress,
and tell jokes and laugh, seem happy,
like you never do in your chair.
Like you never do on the ride home.
 I wish I could reach you, or know
why your like this, why I am just like you.
What scar on our hearts from birth
or whispered madness in lost dreams,
what fate took the sun from both our eyes.