In Contented Poses

It still hurts.

I still get the itch.

To drag sharp objects across my flesh.

To penetrate this body.

For the breaking of an impenetrable trust.

To drain myself of this tainted life-force.

Sometimes I find myself smiling.

Future endeavors glinting off the sun-drenched pavement I saunter…

…then I remember seeing the images of you.

In contented poses.

Bearing your all to derisive eyes.

As I lay in a pool of my indignity.

My own seditious disease.

Many miles away.

Begging for a sign…a lifeline.


your line was tied up with another.

And you couldn’t see me.

I grow bilious at the replaying of this event.

Nausea not an aid in the ailment of this heartache.

So I cut deeper into myself.

So I could make myself cold.

The thrust of the sword through my back,

was the trust I instilled in your image.

And now I find it hard to speak your name at times.

It’s sometimes foreign.

Akin to a dead language lost through the ages of perdition.

But with time there will arise a sedation of the seas.

A cooling of the gales amidst my discomfort.

Where your slathered image of ill-repose will gather dust and amnesia.

It is here I can dispose of the sword obtruding through my back.

And hang the new days of joyous junctures upon its handle.


-1985 A.D.


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