Short Malingering Poems

Listen to poem:

Male bees are useless layabouts
Gather no nectar or pollen
Can't feed themselves
Have no stingers
Yet World War III
Will be fought with a swarm
Of a billion, billion drones
Some made of cardboard
Mind how the malingers
Have risen, supplanting
Planes, ships, tanks, missiles and subs...

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What man is this,
Who may not kiss
And not want to spit  
Out the taste of carrion,
Not want to wrench
The steaming stench
Of carnality 
In billowing bellows
From his lungs
Not want to cleanse his tongue
Of all that it has touched,
Or hands fingered
Lingering in a malingering mind
Where pleasures pleading
Leads him, blind
Yet leaves behind him, needing
And impeded by his needs....

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Haywire ghetto, lingering corpses, malingering sunshine,
Malignant malediction, staccato with disseminating stench,
Portending: ichor, insipid blood and wenches.

Juxtaposition of aphotic with aphotic; incognizant iniquity.

Noxious oxygen, attenuated jasper, jejune jardiniere:
Zion.

Smoke: implicative cornice,
Sherry or vitriol?
Ours, a world, that feigns polo in alcohol!!

-Pin Dew (30/04/2017)...

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Standing redundant
in an echoing wind,
renewing your vanity
with deference to all

At home on the fringes
where truth is an orphan,
you line up your enemies
canons shot at the wall

A general of
a malingering army,
whose entitled thinkers
lay truth in the grave

The devil is calling
his pulpit awaits you,
the olive branch hollow
—your memory enslaved

(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: November, 2020)...

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It amuses me when people ask
“How are you?”
Fortunately for us both
They never ask
“Who are you?”

For that answer relies upon a deep dive
Into the hollows of a heart
The scorched remains of a soul
A lonely walk
Through the darkness of youth
The crumbled “joy” of innocence
The malingering residue of defeat.

Do not ask who I am
Just leave me to further become
The residue of resurrection’s raw madness
...

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