Ribmeat Of The Family Tree

Newspaper Curtains

12-27-05

I am satire toward a view of myself,
and I've not been so inspired lately.
My senses have been sullen,
scorched and short-changed;
I'm not so much amused as jaded
and with little sentiment to share
I'll blow holes through culture
one backward step at a time.

A no-life, selfish alcoholic with no future
and a dirty, rotten past
passed.
He had newspapers on the windows
and boxes for blankets
and ears covering as hearts
while he sat in the darkest dark.
Swilling, chilling, slowly
killing
embryos before they would impart
or impale his delicacy
of a life imbibed, reviled,
crucified and, ominously,
in defiance of denial.

What's the best for me?
Who knows, he said himself.
Almost as uniquely as a
cutter cutting for the first time.
My curtains are obituaries
and my blogging is rooted
in 1700-style transmissions
from brain to hand and pen to page
only to be translated
as wishes of death personifiably
         enraged.
Left out of a cage,
         enraged.

Urban hermit;
a cell-block termite
hell bent with lack of deterrent.
A lonely angle
star spangled,
with no place to continue.
Thieving currency,
oh surely he's
gone back to home. (?) or has he?
Daylight truant,
nightlife current;
my parallels are so fluent.

He's not like everyone else
and I've got newspapers on my shelf
with songs to sing
and tales to bring
but he's got nothing left.
He's a bad debt.
What's best for me is what's left of me
after he's left.