Damned to be a husband I rebel
As all others before me, more or less:
Within the strict limits
Of my integrity and commitment.
Get the fuck out of my poetry journal!
Consistency and constantly aware
Of this yoke of woman,
A noose of responsibility to sosh thrills
And pinky-finger parties.
Obligations that are a mockery of forced smiles
And strains to remember politics.
A boring waltz of bullshit hellos;
Small talk about whoever didn’t make it
To defend themselves on this court date.
Righteousness through convicted assumption;
Convict through assumed righteousness,
And an open window,
A polygraph of eyes
And a sharp katana.
Archive for May 18, 1997
Soshial Obligashuns
Posted: May 18, 1997 in PoetryTags: Bullshit, Eye, Fuck, Husband, Politics, Smile, Window, Woman
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Yes I am sleeping in here tonight.
And it is true I am writing again.
Attempts to communicate, compromise,
Tolerate, have failed like good ideas:
Practically useless and foppish.
I am simply complex, and my head hurts
From psychotherapy and coping.
We are both selfish and immature,
Egotistical bastards, spineless jelly
In the face of adversity.
An oboe, a flat reed
And symphony for a blade of grass.
Duh.
One time I found
That I loved the warmth
Excavated by nesting:
Burrowing so far
Into a pile of pillows,
A weight of blankets,
The I left the world behind.
These were the laps
Of my imaginary mothers;
They were the arms
Of my dream-lovers.
Safe and tight
Inside a womb of covers,
Tented fabric and
Down-stuffed sandbags
Kept me secluded
From the shellshock of
Existing.
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