Checkmate
This is something like a love letter. This is probably something like a rant. This is too many words, brain-spillage. This is not poetry. This is not prose. I am sorry if that is what you were expecting today. I’m sorry if I am not what you were expecting today. I am not what you need. I am I. I am probably not what you were expecting today. I am single-drop hemoglobin in vast, ocean-endless veins. You are type-O carrying while I am AB-incompatible, toxic. I am I. I am I, inside of I. And I tend to lack the propensity required to carry on conversations. I tend to lack the emotional drive to lend myself to others more than just temporarily. I am I, internal-searching. I am I, inward-facing. This is expulsion. Evac/Recharge. Evac/Recharge. I am lack of responsibility for you. Do not leave your feelings in my hands. Do not expect me to hold water or sand. I am sieve. I am leaking. I am not fit for holding. I am vessel of me. I am awareness-raised yet surprise-unwarranted. When I say I am inconvenient. When I say I am unreliable. When I say I am lacking. I am dissociating. I am I. Please believe me.
Title Me, Insignificant
I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?
I am ruin.
Swear birds
Fuckadoodle-doo said the rooster
As he saw the farmer's axe
Fook-Hen Hell said the chick-hen
But the farmer said
Relax.
Bucking follox said the Turkey
As the farmer passed close by
That twastard’s going to chop me
But the farmer said
Don’t cry.
And the farmer headed for the trees
To chop some fire wood
And the farm birds sighed
With stark relief
And said
That’s clucking good
We were plucking lucky there!
Admit You (version 2)
At last
Now I'm back.
Hoping that you ache at the thought of me,
Seeping and damp at the thought of me.
I hope that you admit you missed me.
You don't want to
Admit you missed me.
I start to rise
At the thought of you.
Inside you deny
But I hope you will
Admit you missed me.
I smell your gratitude as I touch your neck with my lips.
Your gentle moan as your body reacts and begins to
Admit.
You missed me.
We kiss.