Long Cirrhosis Poems
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He was my father… though in name only
I knew him as the one who with my mother bore me.
That’s all he ever was to me.
I am the son of a man who drank and slept out
ever since I could remember.
My mother’s pain is forever etched in my heart
Now he lays in a hospital bed
A skinny ,withered frame, cirrhosis of the liver the doctor’s say
No chance of survival, he can go any day.
I don’t know why I visit…I feel no love for him.
I think only of my mother now many years gone
And wonder why this wicked man’s life goes on
Why does he linger here, why can’t he just disappear.
I can’t even touch his hand laying fragile on the sheet
Twitching and drumming an erratic beat.
He cannot even look at me…maybe he’s ashamed
So he should be…does he even know my name
I come every day to sit beside his bed
Not a word is said.. not a look is shared
Even as a tear dropped from his eyes..I felt nothing
but hate as I looked upon his haggard face.
The evening of the sixth day…I sat at his side
and drew my chair closer to his bed
I looked at him so frail and weak
And took his hand in mine.
He glanced at me sheepishly
And quickly looked away again
I kissed his cheek, I don’t know why
But a strange feeling filled my heart
I forgive you dad, I do love you, I said
Go now in Peace.
Where those words came from
I don’t even know, but as he closed his eyes one last time
I stood up, extended my arms to Heaven
And was enveloped in a dazzling radiance
Forgive…..Forgive… rang in my ears
And as my spirit soared my soul was reborn.
Don't take any of it too seriously.
That's all I got, kid.
Fling paint on the bedroom walls
if you want to,
and call it interior design with a modern touch.
If it happens to look good,
it's still nothing.
Just like all the nothing we call art.
So what?
If it feels good, do it.
If it feels really good, do it a lot,
if it's really worth going against the grind.
(Moderation's a nice touch, but I prefer doing things
however much I want to. Until I get bored and move on,
no self-regulation required)
I recently started drinking more.
That's my new thing.
They say drinking a lot too often,
ultimately causes cirrhosis of the liver.
(For years, I bought it)
Well that's just fine.
Hell, why have a healthy liver just so you can live long enough
to watch yourself decline,
until there's no more good time games
to be had in secrecy?
Long enough to watch yourself stop walking fast,
stop screwing hard,
stop wiping your own ass even?
I'd rather live fast,
and die even faster.
But that's my thing.
Yours may well be something else,
like painting daisies, or growing tomatoes,
for the hell if I know why.
(They'll give you plenty more
to choose from through the years)
A bit vulgar for your tastes, I know.
But vulgarity is life.
You may as well embrace it,
enjoy it.
I probably shouldn't be saying this to a five-year-old,
but it's all you got kid.
A shade of yesterday resigns.
As an ancient star never aligns.
To shine beyond the path it's given.
And let light in when it's forgiven.
A cosmic trail of never ending.
Lost in the mail forever sending.
An unopened message of love.
That only comes from up above.
Return to sender ever ender.
To never know a warmth so tender.
Compassion's not addressed to some.
A mailed letter that did not come.
Forgiveness lives inside forgivers.
For some, it's cirrhosis of the liver.
Till death do part straight from the heart.
For some, they just can't seem to start.
An endless longing for tomorrow.
To pay for yesterday's we borrow.
In hopes all of our dreams come true.
Before our time on earth is through.
In Hades, flows the chthonic Styx, a river
of woe and pain (a channel thoroughfare;
where Charon ferries the dead, who despair)
which unnerves our damned souls till we quiver.
The Styx! It's like cirrhosis which kills the liver,
metastasizing there; but does not care;
and tortures us beyond what we can bear!
Because we are thrice-damned, we now shiver
with the peals of the Stygian death-knell;
while Heaven appears like a hope long dead
(as if we’re ten-thousand feet deep in hell!),
here, where the redeemed dare not walk or tread,
we are but ghosts, like shades without a shell:
yet, hell can we brave; but, the Styx we dread.
How to rid myself of addiction
Let it run to the cross soiled
Here on the 1st station of the cross
Feel the self-hate go to its fate
Carry my new wood proudly
Condemned to crucifixion
I nail the addict while contrite
With kindness and patience
Threw away my paraphernalia
Break the doubt however tight
Like a fruitless wash and repeat
Get up only to fall again
Think of cancer and cirrhosis
Recall the tethers of a life
Teach me true forgiveness
Know that I am enough
But, addiction is insatiable
When it’s time to strike, strike
When I let go the trial starts
An addict is an addict for a lifetime
Walk the stations day after day
Naked and humbled each morning
Endure emptiness’ open palms
Find amity in fear's closed fist
Each iteration is not a failure
Be proud above happy people
With their sanctioned addictions
We are the socially unacceptable
Making failure our familiar
Our struggle the incomparable
If by chance you receive this message
Riddled by your daily choices
Addiction has no beginning or end
Returning to the 12th station
Eli eli lama sabachthani
Expire like thieves beside the helpless
Resurrect me on the 15th
Stumbling is better than stasis
Lay me beside you entombed
I am thirsty, Lord
Tetelestai
A deer in my cabin roadway
regards me curious
like a painter at his easel
As twilight flickering, catches its coat,
dappled patches of brown.
"Are you okay?" It nods, a neck swoop down, in flourishes.
"Do you want more apples?" It bobs again
before fleet footed to the woods away.
My cabin mate would have gaped in wonder
but he's not here.
He fell in love with barley whiskey.
Kidney failure
Cirrhosis
That took his apple grin away.
But not before his body screamed
a spinning form in spasms
to miss the fleeting hooves of deer.
Poem composed: October 2020
it was not so much that his liver had succumbed to cirrhosis
the jaundice had resulted from hard core assault on his brain
no rose-tinted spectacles would ever restore his faulty vision
myopia in itself was not a problem but refusing its correction is
in his mind however darkness was reserved for the plague
hallucination was if one questioned superiority of White folks
then his worst nightmare became true at a gay bashing party
just when they started to burn an effigy of sexual aberration
ready to slaughter a ****** on the altar of self-righteous pride
already mocking and chanting for God’s straight creation
someone spiked his drink with LSD and his vision went wild
a prism of spectral rainbows danced and he dropped his guard
and his pants as a matter of fact and he fondled his mate’s groin
delirious with such panoply of diverse hues of flamboyance
gaudy radiance sent shivers of animation down to his phallus
which would not stand up to the pressure of diverse vibrance
he stuffed little blue pills down his throat but all he accomplished
was a giant headache and a pain in the backside when vibrations
on batteries stretched his soul’s sphincters in uninhibited pleasure
hetero phobia and racial oppression vanished once and for all as
he embodied the vicious hypocritical flatulence he had always been
disgraced and confined to an orange jump suit the iris of fantasy
came to confirm that he had never been the brightest crayon in the
box but exposed in unwilling iridescence he whined like a sheep
at the slaughter to the unforgiving applause of jaundiced demise
29th June 2021
She said that the stars were listening.
She said that her gift was a curse
but that was four years ago.
She said that she hoped
we would understand.
She added that she was proud
that her daughter had a child
but daughter had stopped speaking with her/
She never mentioned a date
or possible cause of death.
This summer, four years later
she told a friend she’d been drinking
since her boyfriend died of cancer.
She said that had cirrhosis
of the liver—
she said she couldn’t stop.
She refused detox—
she couldn’t stop.
She couldn’t let go
of her delusions,
her friends.
My friend and I looked
to see her website
about her poems and visions
had been taken down
and only her obit remained.
It was a clear day
when she called my friend
to tell him the news.
as she stood on her patio
and peered at clear skies.
knowing an overhead satellite
was reading her thoughts.
The psychiatrist gave her meds
to ease her delusions
as she bore the weight
of a body of knowledge
no one else possessed.
My friend called her
and called again
and she didn’t answer,
he and I pondered her fate
not knowing if she was
alive or dead.
It hurt thinking
maybe she wouldn’t
want us to know.
My friend and I reminisced
about the times we sat with her
on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop
and traffic passed
as we shared poems.
Back then
we always understood
her fears and aspirations
and we always loved her
as we listened between the lines.
Now 52, she was one of the first heroin addicts I had ever met.
Having been addicted for years, now death was her greatest threat.
Both her days and nights were spent turning tricks and getting high.
Having failed to be free many times, she decided to give it one last try.
She decided to check into Prevention House, which is where I met her.
Her life would be forever changed, beginning that cold Chicago December.
She was tempted to protest, but she felt this time she will not fail the test
She waved goodbye to heroin heaven and said hello to her haven of rest.
Then, there was Mac who was an angry and bitter man bound by alcohol.
He tells a story of shooting a man and the thrill of watching him fall.
Mac later tried alcohol for cheap thrills which became his greatest fall of all. He did beat alcohol but was never able to be cured from cirrhosis of the liver.
Like Flo, Mac overcame his addiction and gained peace with God forever.
122320PSCtest, Addiction Poetry, Rob Levasseur
I constantly search for it
but it's enigmatical elusive,
hidden in a Mona Lisa smile.
Should I arm myself against self inflicted pains?
Camouflage my feelings with insouciant emotions?
For all my cirrhosis equivocal endeavors,
I manage only to forge a jealous rift,
until fragile truths bring sullen tears.
For God is love, and love is truth.
Had I misused it?
Is that why I can't find it now?
Yet they say that love is beautiful.
Where does true beauty lie?
All I find is veiled secrets,
thinly disguised behind mirthful masks
frivolously worn on carefree Valentine days.
Should in dire despair give up?