Tag Archives: people suck

There Was A Light

There is only us. Only a fire.
The stars are wonders.
The stars are beautiful.
The stars are distant.
They cannot help us.
Or light us. Or warm us.
There is only a fire.

We huddle close.
Hold each other.
Last of undissipated warmth.
Last of our desperate race.
The world is dead.
The fire will go out.
Then we will die.

 A fire in depths of space.
A world born and thriving.
Apes grew up to be men.
Men grew up to cruel.
There was gold and light.
Darkness drowned it in blood.
The light went out.
 There is us. There is the fire.
The night is cold, will not end.
My tears fall in your hair as I hold you.
The fire is sickly and dim now.
When it goes, we go to, into darkness.
Silence, only our heartbeates calling.
I love you.
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It Gets To Be A Habit

It seems like it’s never worth it.

To fight against the weight of their ignorance.

Their uncaring, unhearing, uncomprehending.

All the blood of your dreams, the afterbirth of your tears,

the screaming of your broken thoughts, gets tossed aside.

You get Jesussplained. You get told to suck it up.

You get told what you’re REALLY feeling.

You get assholes who don’t want their mellow harshened,

with your sorrow and pain and fear.

So you just smile and joke and laugh, and sing for your supper.

Social lubricant, the phony smile.

But all that bad shit is still there, still eats at you,

still the demons hound you. Still the dreams go blank.

And you’ve so successfully buried your feelings,

you feel nothing at all, not even the hate or the rage.

You become even phonier and emptier and deader.

No matter what, you end up alone with death.

 

It Burns Me Like Prey

I sit in a dark classroom, alone, with the rain on the window
and the colorless and brooding sky my sole comfort today.
I eat a ham sandwich soggy with mayonaise and pickle juice.
I try to make eye contact with an angel in the corner.
 “Will you be my friend?” I ask him. “Will you come see me?”
He won’t look at me, as he disinterestedly smokes a clove cigarette.
I sigh, finish the soggy sandwich, go on to the hatefully sweet juice.
Angels and high schoolers are stuck up assholes, no doubt about it.
 But the rain comes from a different god, a devil of sorrow and music,
and I try to remember that song I heard on the radio one time, so late.
Their laughter, like this juice, is hateful in it’s sweetness, agressively alright.
On my shoulder, one of The Fey tells me the name of the star that bore me.
 Soggy sandwich, gross juice, and cardboard chips finished, I throw away trash
and pick up my books, as weighty as the righteous arrogance that weighs down
the children of light, makes their light the darkest pit for the wild and left behind.
I look down, because I hate the animal shine in their eyes. It burns me like prey.
 A room waits, after all is finished today, and only sweet voices will find me there.

Feared or Loved?

I told her not to ask that. That question. About that girl.
She fucking did anyway. They always do. Always fucking do.
I just don’t inspire respect, somehow. My wishes aren’t honored.
I say don’t talk about that. Don’t about that around me.
Don’t pick at the scar. They laugh, call me a fag, do anyway.
Friends are supposed to love you, and care about you.
But, if I hurt, they just want jam their fingers in the wound,
have a good feel around, laugh at me for protesting,
go back to that go to word: “Fag!”
Sometimes I wish I was violent and vicious, someone feared,
like a goddamn Conan The Barbarian motherfucker,
the kind of person that beat people into pulp at the slightest
provication, disrespect or insult. People would defer to violence.
Miciavelli was right: It’s better to be feared than loved.
He just wasn’t right like he thought.

Only Angels

The end of a cul-de-sac, end of the circle, end of the road.
Rundown house where once a family lived, trying to be happy.
I hide now in the basement, calling on the radio to my home on Mars.
Yard’s gone feral, the pavement broken. Only us strangers living here.
 My wife sits in the master bedroom on the second floor, Saturday Sunlight
shining through the thin curtains, making her flaxen hair shine like hot gold.
She was a fashion model before the war. She was a stranger then, a voice of death.
She sees the light of coming death in the bright spring day, winter laughing at us.
 The humans have fled from here. The world is disarray and mistrust. Blood is blood.
No signal to the commanders. We’re on our own. A strange world we take, because….?
I go to me my wife and we lay together on the bed, drunk on sunlight and warmth.
Our child is growing inside her. This is not our world. Or the humans. Only angels own it.