METAPHASE

More Bad News

 

I came back home 

So that I wouldn't be lonely

And - surprise surprise!

I'm lonely as hope

 

My hedonist legions of friends

And lover

Can't see what's wrong with

All of this

 

Money talks and

It's all greek to me!

And it's all greek to me!

Post traumatic postal service

Syndrome

And my book didn't work and

I have news for all of you poets

 

Your poems don't work 

And they never have

And never will.

While you write poems about

The finest women your heart can 

Conjure and contemplate

 

Another guy will be making tasteless

Almost insulting comments

About their bodies

And somehow it will work better

Than all the sonnets you could ever hope to write. 

And all the similes about angelic features

And ripe watermelon melodic

Lips and golden sunrise eyes, hair etc.

 

I came back home so that

I wouldn't be lonely and all that.

And here I am

Bitching about women and poetry.

The clocks don't tick or tock, 

they lack lack lack. And talk talk talk.

 

And I'm 25, and back home 

And lonely 

As 

Hope.

Another weird one

 

Top of the hill

Top of the morning

Tip toe to the top of the world

That's forming.

 

Bottom of the

Well,

At the bottom of the day

And after all, everything's

Ok

 

Bottoms up 

Top down

Silver sea misery

Lip Lip Hooray!

Three cheers for the three chairs

And the one in the middle

Who never, ever shopped at Lidl

 

And my over the wall

Land down under

Over the top

Way at the bottom of the 

Well, well, well...

Silver sea misery

Libido.

A tragedy

 

Some days it's like this and

So tragic:

You want something more

And I want 

Something less.

Some other days it's the opposite

An extreme reversal where

Tragedy is preserved:

I want something more

And you want

Something less.

 

And Sophocles, Shakespeare,

Aesthetic Aeschylus

And Cerberus, the mad dog of hell

Himself

Couldn't touch life's tragedy

If their death depended on it.

 

And the ha-harrowing metaphysical scream is always this: 

 

Can't, oh Can't, OH CAN'T

 

We just 

Be happy

Where we are?

Prosac Intermission 3 ( A necessary one)

 

This guy, you should hear him speak. He always has something smart to say.

-Hey guys, is it time?

-Time for what?

-Is it time? 

-“Time for what, Atlas? ” asked a fresher.  

Yes, I’ll call him Atlas, because he looks like he carries the world on his shoulders.

- Time. Is it? he said. Obviously frustrated that people weren’t getting his question.

No one replied. Everybody looked confused, except me. I had a quirky smile and could barely hide my excitement.

-Yes, Atlas. It’s time! I replied smashing the awkward silence that followed his peculiar question.

-Hmm, so it is. I was afraid you would say that. He added with disappointment.

Every time we met him at a party, he always asked the same question. And I, always replied in the same way. I think he secretly hoped that once, I would answer differently. That I would say it was not time. But I never could. You see, it is. It always is. Time.