Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.147.44.46
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
What have we become?
         We who used to sit in my bedroom
         listening to Beatles records on headphones.
We spoke of the future.
         We planned our advance.
How many cups of coffee have we consumed
         in the over 30 years we've known one another?
A private village buzzing with secret flies.
An isolated two merged in one thought.
Teenage boys. Teenage men.
Men. Yes, we became men.
     Grown up. Living in our own apartment.
Peanut butter and coffee in the cupboard.
Bread and margarine in the fridge.
Macaroni and Cheese for supper.
               Living the good life!
University. Late night studies.
Crammed in between the parties.
        Laundry day. Bags and bags of
                rumpled semen stained clothes,
                dumped like angry *****es
                                into industrial machines.
Video games and cigarettes.
             Philosophy and politics.
We and our gang of other anxious young men
    gathering in groups for comfort.
                     Planning on how we'd get laid.
Mostly going home alone and jacking off.
We grew older. Old.
Yes, I suppose we are now old men.
   Just a wee bit past middle-aged.
Infrequently connecting. Suggesting times
                          we could meet.
Dinner and a Movie perhaps? Have we become that old?
Life goes on and has gone on.
         Marriages begun. Marriages ended.
Husband. Father. Having Kids. Children. Teenagers. Young adults.
                      Grandfather now.
You've lost your hair. I didn't take it, but still it is lost.
           Mine remains, but rude strands of grey pop
                                        up like alabaster whores
                                                       on parade.
Keep it between ourselves, but I colour mine now.
             Oh yes. Like a vain woman rushing to her
                                        makeover session, I plop
                                                 The gunk on my head and
                                                         wait for it to pretend for me.
I'm crabby in the mornings. Irritated in the afternoons. Pissed off
                                           by the coming of the night. Adulthood.
                                                                  Isn't it grand?!
Do you still listen to the same music we used to love?
Pop on a Beatles song and sing along, planning on how
                                                       to change the planet?
Me. I don't give a **** about the planet anymore. Let it rot
                                                    into stinking piles of dung.
I'm involved in my own existing now.
Are you?
We're in the final stages of living. Neither sad nor morbid.
                                                Simply a fact.
Good twenty, thirty years left.
                Let's promise each other to meet again
                       a few more times before our funerals.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required