#310
Sun burnt blusterous nose
sipping bitter piss like the
over inflated bastards before.
And here i was arrogant enough
to think i could outsmart them.
Out play them. Over achieve them.
In what? Happiness? Where
the fuck do i get off
pretending i’m non-other than
another monster in arms.
To these young pissheads, how i scorn
them, the low numbered panels
i so valiantly swing above my head-
Not like them! Not like them, i carol
on and on and on, when in truth
i do nothing but sit as a scowling mirror,
unsure what’s more dangerous, the
reflections i have sitting alone in honesty,
or, the self i see mirrored in the bottom of my glass.
#311
i don’t want to be friends.
can you really not see where this goes?
Your own limitations, the circle
these fates know? i ask a lot of questions
and my judgements i don’t hold too close
Certainly i can recognize i’m no better
but that knowledge i quiet, i ignore,
if i might find myself so lucky
to be back in the presence with those
i admire, whom respect is a word that falls to short,
i’ll sing back my friendly tunes, the ones
that keep my miserable self in check.
#312
The hand of God,
or the word.
i sit unworthy of either.
Realistically all i could
wish for is the fist.
If only the wisdom to withdraw
would bless itself upon my brow.
If only i could comprehend it,
could i find the strength to resist?
What a curse, what a curse.
#313
She kept repeating that we were
at the bottom of the world,
though i knew better, i’ve
skipped stones from the edge,
into waves forbidden,
the singing songs of icy hell
calling from further on. Yet, now,
i’m above much much higher,
in a bar marooned, and uncontent,
the characters that keep circling
around me, well,
unique is an understatement,
it’s as if i’ve stepped backward
to a time the world knows no more,
but the constant ring of the present
wafts in and its self known, unignored,
as is the sure headedness of the near amiss,
pathetic want to be pirates, jugglers,
trustfund dreaded degenerates,
and old men still seeking fun, looking for glory.
#314
It’s colder than yesterday,
the parks are becoming
less and less romantic,
my tenacity is thinning,
speaking with the wise men
was a pleasure that broke up
the mundane, hungover,
Sunday mornings. It’ll be a
night of dodging sprinklers,
though i suppose that’ll trump
the spins of Saturday.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write