Email Poem

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Poem
hostile,
pungent,
nasty,
&
redefining the art of having a
chip on his shoulder
he marches through the last specks of his burnt out existence
telling us all how we should live our lives
(spouting his rotting “wisdom” at everyone he sees)
while
regretting
so very much of his
own---
with wrinkled ancient skin
flabby & sagging
dark blue veins popping out
just beneath the surface of his
decrepit self
lost in the deadening reflection of the polluted river he kneels by
wondering why his wife left him
wondering why he can’t get it up anymore
the dirty homophobe walking on the college school grounds
trying to flirt with young girls
trying to remember what it was like
when he could smell the roses
but
now
all
the
roses
have
wilted
& he can’t get past the fact that things are changing
that things have changed
and he’s lost in the moment
of really being scared,
terrified in the corner
flipping out with his pathetic attempts at wit
condemning us all to the hell he clenches on to
he has to believe that it exists
because it’s the only
justice
left for him
but with the reality that his
superannuated ideas
just don’t
cut
the
mustard
anymore---
trying to pelt us with his cane
trying to keep free from the rain
and yet all the voices in his brain
don’t allow him any peace from the pain
which really fuels all of this
disdain
and
narcissistic need for death to come
sooner than later
and some will say he is no longer loved
and some will wonder just how he got to where he is
and some will see that what he has become is simply
unsavory
and it’s just better to walk away when he enters the room
but
i have no sympathy for such bitterness
i have no sympathy for laziness that comes with self-pity
and
waiting for that clock to tick that last tick
i’m walking down a narrow street in st. petersburg
looking for
raskolnikov
cause’ i got this old bastard’s number in my hand
and his time is up
i think we’ve had enough
i’ll polish the candelabra for my young friend
hell, i’ll sharpen his axe,
and stand watch, outside the bastard’s building
ready to alert him
if anyone catches onto our
“dastardly deed.”
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