This is when the old and the young,
beasts and confraternal drunks
damn the consequences of death
lying porous on crossroads upon
bifurcated paths, fractured junctions
and ceremonial cul-de-sacs...
The time is immaterial,
so long as the traffic lights — the veggie-green,
the claret, and the urine-amber —choose their slow
blinking and rapid-eyelid movement carefully.
And moon might decide not to power its own light.
Tenebrous tracks then fill our eyes with the age of
sea monsters blinded by charcoal waves.
Need I hail the neon signs of bordellos!
And the city’s restless constellations!
They sparkle with rage and with the brio of rioting stars,
thus adding celestial films to our already overloaded eyes....
But that’s another story.
C’mon... we are no Deer or Asahel descendants!
Closely related to sloths, millipedes and snails,
we drag our feet, which in turn drag the volumes of
stupidity in us, aggravated by drams and midnight parties
held between a flowing weekend and a stagnant Thursday.
Transporting me from here to where?
I cannot follow my muse, nor do I dare.
Trixie is outrageous, much more energetic than me.
She takes me to honky-tonks, and drinks petite tea.
I find her in bordellos with men who are crass.
She is usually bare naked, showing her ample …..
She is the leader, the alpha, the one who writes this stuff.
I can barely keep up with her. Her imagery is rough!
Transporting me into situations that make sailors blush.
She laughs at my consternation, whispering I should hush.
Put everything in her hands, let her have her wild winsome way.
Frankly, I am glad to blame her each and every damned day.
Just another caterpillar afternoon,
inching along lazily;
Skin feeling how faint the prairie wind blow,
time no longer telling you
how slow the summer grass grow
So you take another sip of blackberry boredom Bordeaux,
as the sun and your insides warm you
Pear-shaped tears now fully ripe,
puts you in the mood for some mellow regret ...
Got no kids,
got no wife
So you just take another sip
from a nearly empty bottle life
You spilt a lot of your fine good wine long ago;
wasted a lot of your youthful years
running in and out of bars, jails and bordellos
All of your acquaintances are people you barely know,
and your most fond, intimate memories
comes from a radio
So you go give yourself one last toast
from that almost empty bottle ...
Now you’re about ready to close your eyes,
and dream of another lazy, morning sunrise
Sadly, you got nobody around to give cheers
to your empty bottle life
This poem was inspired from a poem titled "Only A Game"
by the talented poet, Phil Capitano
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