Every meaningless sigh, every passing glance, I read them all like a love letter I myself would write. Small gestures meant to mean something.
Peter Porter 'ANNOTATIONS of AUSCHwITZ
R B M A R E
A E I C H F I
T T
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I have a beautiful garment my father gave to me
He too got it in an occasion of manumission from slavery
Beautiful garment he celebrated in remembrance of that jubilee
Before he handed it over to me as a sign of always being free
What a garment!
My fantasy lured me to sew it into an apparel of simplicity
My beautiful garment with natural colours to show my domesticity
Which I gave to my friends who claimed they know a London tailor
Was given to an unskilled cutter called Mr. Taylor
What a gaffe!
Who made patches on it like annotations made by annotator
When my reasoning compelled me to agitate the awful patches made all over the exterior
The bespoken tailor stood speechless and indifferent
While my friends request another opportunity for adjustment
What a grief!
With my assessment, can I believe such proposed resolution
When my lamentation has gotten me a better recommendation with good execution?
My heart is once again lifted by a testimonial that boost my morale
That I shall wear my apparel of simplicity for the whole world to hail.
i read indulgence mid scripted words
breaking all the rules and then some,
what be greater than gutting & swallowing
uttermost concentration of language
critically consummated or otherwise,
communing within written ideologies
something profoundly reverent or
perhaps deliberate liberating nonsense,
nonetheless commonsensical compunction to
the discerning foresightedness of poets
& enduring escape artists 'tween psyche's
hallucinations & declarations
about analytically anomalous analgesics
and mellisonant melancholy metonymy,
rising above the fray of brutally alliterated
annotations fragmenting & fracturing dimensions,
steel blades sharpening anthologies' imperfect isms
inferring resoluteness 'tween deductive reasoning,
willing exposure imparting quintessential bollocks
literally grasping mercilessly melded metaphors
courageous enough to virtually be aptly bled,
plunged beneath swords' inky touchstones
pushed down by the currents of depravity but still i hear thy voice, whispering so elegantly "in the afterlife you suffer with no choice." the words i speak rip and tear through my mind, iv'e watched helplessly as insanity is imperviously designed, the darkness casts love away and leaves everything i adored behind. demons slip through the seams and begin to crawl, wingless angels now corrupted begin to fall, i am the diabolical shadow following closely behind you all. the tormented memories of an infernal childhood where i was grown, when i die inscribe my words upon my tombstone, let it be known, through life i was already dead and alone. when i write tear's begin leaking from my eyes, i may say im fine but there all lies, he dies just a little bit more inside every night he breaks down and cries, helplessly waiting for someone to realize, i pray for help but no one ever replies
My untimely Lover,
Take in the notion that this
Is not the proper moment.
This is not the moment to be seen
Or get fed.
This isn't the part where the rain falls
Or when the clouds decide
That beacons should take over by dusk.
I have considered many long nights
Past the judgment of a juvenile mind
And they have all been but forgotten.
I have realized the sentiments
Of mothers built on morphine
But I have not dismissed
The outcome of subordinate fathers.
I stepped past an ugly lawn
With a proto type framework
And drifted between the lines,
Mingled with the guests
And smoked my lungs away,
Cried my eyes out,
Or left the football team stupefied.
With this injunction,
I'm compelled to leave a message
For a penny and a praise.
If this seems questionable,
My ill clad Lover,
Take the time to memorize
My most infamous traits.
I write smut for a living
And eat sex by the handfuls.
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